


New Skin

by rransom (Scruffy_Wolf)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Character Study, Excessive Drinking, Head Injury, Hockey, Hospitals, M/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-07-23 14:39:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 66,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7467228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scruffy_Wolf/pseuds/rransom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world tells Jack that he's been living the dream. His doctors tell him that he's so lucky things turned out they way they did. His parents tell him that he is so <i>happy</i>.</p>
<p>If only he could remember why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative title, provided by [Cath](http://iamnotmagic-cath.tumblr.com/); thnks fr th mmrs. It was obviously much better than anything I could come up with.
> 
> The title comes from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oYOQgwIKj9c) which is a work of art, really. 
> 
> Man this fic has taken me _forever_. Thanks to [Sam](http://samsamtastic.tumblr.com/) for the speedy and extensive beta job, and all the hand holding, I really appreciate it, she did a fantastic job. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Content warnings. ******
> 
>  
> 
> I've put the warnings up here, please message me on tumblr if you need more info and skip past if you don't wanna be spoiled at all. 
> 
> 1\. Anxiety disorder and mentions of Jack's overdose  
> 2\. Head Injury  
> 3\. Excessive drinking - frat level for the most part, but one particular occurrence of extremely excessive drinking, for bad reasons  
> 4\. Temporary Break Up and one non-zimbits kiss  
> 5\. Slurs - (one occurrence early on)
> 
> Here's my [tumblr](http://rransom.tumblr.com/), I'll answer any questions best I can.

 

 

**"Lay off me would ya,**  
**I’m just tryin' to take this new skin for a spin."**

-Torres

-

Jack knows that he values his privacy more than most, substantially more than his teammates. He always double checks that paparazzi don't follow him home, makes sure his Facebook is set up with a fake name, carefully triple checks any photos that he posts to Instagram.

His life is controlled by it; keeping himself hidden, keeping his life away from the camera, keeping _Bitty_ away from the cameras.

There's a fear, settled deep in his gut at the thought of coming out, of people finding out, that's been there since he was a teen; practically grown roots into his stomach.

It isn't like there isn't _theories_ out there. Jack is used to the rumour mill; the media has been gossiping about his sexuality since he was seventeen; when he'd so naively underestimated the interest there would be in his life. He'd been so brazen with Parson, too swept up in the rush and the _heat_ of their relationship that didn't even consider what he was broadcasting to the world.

But Jack isn't seventeen anymore; he's not still shaking under the pressure and expectation to be the second coming of _Bad Bob._ People know about Bitty. His team, Georgia, they all don't care. Hell, he's pretty sure rumors of Bits are making their way across the NHL - hockey players are some of the biggest gossips that Jack has ever known. He certainly hears about Parson's escapades with alarming frequency.

He breathes in deeply, inhaling Bitty's familiar scent. It's early. Too early. Jack shouldn't even be awake, but he is; curled up around Bitty. Jack tries not to focus on the broad, warm back, and Bit's firm ass pressed up against his cock.

"I think I'm gonna come out," he murmurs, lips pressed against the nape of Bitty’s neck. It's a surprise even to himself.

Bitty stiffens, stretching out his back and lifting a hand to rub at his eyes. He rolls over, curling under Jack's arm. "Huh?" He's squinting, trying to keep his eyes open, his expression groggy from sleep. Their legs are tangled together and it's so comfortingly familiar, so domestic. Jack still can't believe that he gets to have this; that Bitty wants him like this.

"Out." Jack repeats. Bit's hair is mussed with sleep and he's smiling, so achingly warm and bright. "I want to come out. I mean, if you want to- I know it'd mean you'd be in the spotlight more and if you don't want that I-"

Bitty presses forward and quiets him with a kiss.

It's soft at first, Bitty's arm slung over Jack's waist as he kisses him gently, without intent. Jack can't help the way he gasps though, clutching the back of Bitty's shoulder with blunt fingers.

His hips jerk forward, desperately seeking _something_. He's rock hard already just from Bitty's soft kisses and gentle touch.

Bitty pulls away slightly with a smirk, "Someone's up anyway."

" _Bittle,"_ Jack gasps as Bitty's hand slides down and under the waistband of Jack's boxers, wrapping around him in a firm, familiar grip. "Fuck."

Bitty bites Jack's neck, _hard_ , while he continues jerking him off, his grip tight, pace fast. "Shhhh, it's early yet," he says gently into Jack's shoulder.

Jack's skin feels like it's on fire, nerve endings set alight. His muscles tense, toes flexing as pleasure courses through his bloodstream. It's over quickly, Jack gasping, hands gripping Bitty too tight as come splatters across his stomach.

He slumps back onto the bed, heart still racing, while Bitty rolls over and grabs wet wipes from in the nightstand. He cleans Jack up as gently as he can before he pulls the comforter back over the top of them and nuzzles back into Jack's side.

"I'm with you, no matter what you want to do, baby," Bitty presses a kiss into his shoulder. "Now, please, go to sleep. It's six in the fuckin' morning."

 

-

 

Jack has always confided in George since she scouted him back at Samwell. She'd always had his back in the higher-up discussions about PR and his media presence, protecting him fiercely.

She knows almost everything that he has worked so hard to keep private, helped him with some of it. Jack told her about his anxiety, the overdose, his past with Kent Parson, and his present with Bitty.

So, George knows him and she knows Bitty. She's a frequent guest at their place for Sunday dinner. Jack tries to keep that in mind when he's sitting in front of her desk. He shouldn't be so anxious; not about George. It wasn't like she was going to be surprised that he no longer wanted to sneak around like teenagers with Bits. They'd been together for almost two years.  

"I saw the last interview you did," George says absently while she glances at her computer, a furrow forming between her brow. "It was good, you handled the press well. I know they were prying a lot that day."

Jack wrings his hands together, before clearing his throat. "Uh, I... I just. I think it's time to come out. Me and Bits. As gay. Well, I mean - I’m bi, but… you get the point.."

Whatever George had thought he was there to talk about, Jack would bet it wasn’t this. She turns and blinked at him owlishly. "Wow, uh... wow."

"Yeah."

They are both silent for a minute, letting what Jack had said sink in. "Is there a time limit on this?"

"What?"

"It's just... you've never been in a hurry before now, does someone have something on you? We can try to make it go away, if you want."

Jack's stomach sinks. "No," he shakes his head quickly. "No, I _want_ to do this. _We_ want to do this. You've always said that it was my choice if I wanted to come out of not, and I'm tired of hiding myself like some dirty little secret. Me, and Bits, we're the real deal, I don't want the choice to come out to be taken away from us by a media leak or–”

George reaches over quickly, grabbing a hold of Jack's hand, "Hey, no, I didn't mean it like that. Jack, I'm behind you, no matter what. I'm just... surprised I guess. I didn't see this in the cards."

Jack sighs deeply. "I'm pretty much living with him, George, you know that. He sits with all the other family holding signs he makes himself at all our home games. People online have figured it out, I've seen posts y'know? And, yeah, nobody’s really taking them seriously - yet. It's only a matter of time before some sleezy photographer catches us. I want this to be on my terms, hell, I just want take him to dinner and not panic about being seen by someone."

"Okay, so," George clears her throat, and grabs a pen and pad of paper. "The ball's in your court, Jack. How do you want to do this? And when?"

"I'm thinking when our season's over," Jack says. He'd planned this, already discussed it with Bitty. That way Bitty would have already graduated, the media shit show wouldn't interfere with finals. "If we make a run for the Cup I'll hold off till we're out. I don't want the media to interfere with the team. What do you think?"

George nods. "I'm on board with that and I think PR will too. We can write the narrative here."

"Thanks," Jack says, letting out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, relief washing over him. He gets to his feet, his chair scraping across the floor as he does, which makes George wince. "Sorry about that."

"No problem. Now if that's all, I've got to get back to work," George gestures to the computer. He nods at her and heads home to tell Bitty the good news.

 

-

 

The next few weeks fly by for Jack. The Falconers make it to the finals, second place overall in the conference, which just makes the coaches push them harder. Bitty is coming up to his finals and stuck in term paper hell, so the two of them don’t get to see much of each other. It sucks but they both have to do what they have to do. They have responsibilities.

The first round is against the Detroit Red Wings. They're three games up; if they win this it's all over.

Jack is at the center of the ice poised for a face off. He glances to the player bench; Bitty is sitting behind it with a banner, cheering wildly, Lardo and Shitty either side of him. Jack grins, before turning back to face the Red Wing's center. He tunes out the crowd, focuses on the game.

Time on the clock is low and they're stalled at 3-3. He needs to score. They need to make it to the second round this time. The ref drops the puck and immediately the rink is a blur of movement. He gets the puck and passes out to his left where he knows Tater will be waiting.

They're moving up the ice, so fast that he barely has time to get eyes on the puck. Jack doesn't need to think about this anymore. It's instinct.

Tater passes.

Jack takes a shot.

The puck flies.

And-

The goalie catches it.

The ref's whistle blows automatically and Jack's shoulders slump, as he swings around, skating back towards his teammates, towards the flash of blue jerseys.

That's when he hears it.

" _Faggot._ "

Jack blinks, mostly in shock, spinning around to see where the slur had come from. There's a kid standing behind him, just out of earshot of the ref, grinning at him. He couldn't have been older than 19, maybe 18, but he was already there in the NHL, living the life Jack had been gunning for all those years ago.

Jack squares his shoulders, drawing himself to his full height instinctively. "What did you call me?"

"You heard me," the kid hisses, before reaching out his hands and shoving Jack's shoulders. "You _faggot._ Everyone knows about you, it's the talk of the league. _"_

Jack takes a deep breath, setting his jaw. He doesn't fight that much anymore, not like when he was first on the ice. He doesn't want that reputation. It'd be one more thing for them to use to compare him to his dad. It's not the first time that he's heard the slur thrown around the rink. He lets out his breath slowly.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Jack says, turning on his heel.

"Yeah?" the kid calls after him, baiting him. "Maybe I'll go talk to that _twink_ in the stands then. I’ll ask him about it."

It's like someone flips a switch inside of him, talking about Bitty that way, leering at him. That is over the line. He's pent up, too much adrenaline still surging from the match. The next thing Jack's knows, he's tossing his gloves away, and squaring up, blood pounding in his ears.

The kid drops his gloves, grinning triumphantly. Jack can tell that he counts this as a win, it's what he wanted; to goad The Jack Zimmermann into a fight. Jack reaches out and grabs his shirt, swinging his right hook towards the guys head. It's a brawl, the two of them just slugging at each other, Jack barely feels the hits until the kid lands one at a certain angle and he feels his helmet go, rattling across the ice.

He's half way through throwing a punch when it happens, too late to stop his momentum already behind his fist. The kid falls on his ass, Jack still clinging to his jersey and the kid has one hand clutching his arm. He's flipping through the air, head first.

Then there is nothing.

 

-

 

Consciousness comes to Jack slowly. The first thing he's aware of is the familiar stench of disinfectant, the way it crawls in his nose, smothering, overwhelming.

He can hear the beep of the heart monitor. He doesn't think he's ever felt a headache quite like this one. He can feel the blood pulsing around his scalp, an all-encompassing vice around his head, throbbing with his heartbeat, with the beep of the machine. His eyelids are heavy, so heavy that he almost gives up, almost falls back into sleep, but then there's a hand in his. It's soft.

Jack forces himself to open his eyes. He's in a dimly lit hospital room and his mother is dozing in a chair next to his bed, one hand clenched tightly around his.

"Mom _,"_ Jack tries. His throat doesn't want to cooperate, his lips are crusted over with some gunk. " _Quoi..."_

She startles awake, "Jack," she whispers, so gently. She's afraid, he can see it, and god, she looks _exhausted._ He must've fucked up bad this time. What has he done?

"My head," he tries. Her gaze is sympathetic.

"Oh, Jack, I'll get a nurse-"

"Jack." His dad is in the door, two cups of coffee in hand, blinking at him. He's scared too, Jack can see it written across his face, " _Mon Petit-"_

"No coffee for me?" Jack asks, his voice coming back to him slightly, even if each word scratches his throat on the way out. The room is still for a beat, then his dad smiles, relief palpable.

"You can have mine," His dad says, sitting down on the other side of the bed. "If you really feel up to it."

Jack doesn't feel up to it _at all,_ the thought of even picking the cup up sounds like too much exertion. When his dad puts the coffee on the side table, Jack makes no move to grasp it. Sleep is calling to him, but he can't. he's so lost.

"Papa," he says.

" _Ouias,_ Jack?"

"I didn't-" he hesitates, he can feel the lump in his throat growing, almost painful. He swallows. "I didn't mess up again, did I?"

" _No!_ ," his dad says fiercely, leaning forward and grasping his free hand. His mother is worryingly quiet. When he looks to her she has one hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her cheeks now.

"I just-" Jack blinks hard, sending his own tears spilling over. He can his hands shaking, his gut clenching. ''I'm trying to get better. I am."

"Jack, son, you are, we're so proud of you," his mom says, moving a hand up to stroke his shoulder, pushing him gently into the bed. His ribs protested against each movement. "Honey you've had quite a hit to the head, you need to rest, please don't get worked up."

Jack settles down in his pillows, letting his breathing even out. He feels his eyelids drooping once more. "So. Tired."

"Go back to sleep," his dad says, stroking back his hair. God, he looks old, whatever happened must have been stressful for them. "Bitty will be here soon. We sent him home to get some sleep, poor boy."

"Bitty?" Jack asks.

"Eric," his dad clarifies, confusion evident in his tone, mirroring Jack's state of mind.

"Who?" He mumbles, head turning into the pillow. He doesn't have time to hear his dad's answer before he's asleep once more.

 

-

 

When he next wakes, it's daytime; he can hear the bustle of people passing the door, the warm sunlight streaming in the window. His mom is still sitting by his bed but his dad is nowhere to be seen. There is, however, a short man sleeping in one of the chairs, head lolled down on his shoulder, piles of books and paper spread around him

"Mom-"

"Shhh," She says, giving him a smile, running a hand down the side of his face, pushing away his hair. "I'll call the doctor. Let's be quiet for Eric, I think this is the most sleep he's gotten all week."

He remembers his dad mentioning the name the previous night, but it doesn't help, "Mom," he says, sharply. "Who's-"

"Jack," She says softly, getting to her feet. "Hush, baby."

He feels like an infant, that everyone is taking care of things for him, not asking him what he wants. His mom shuts the door gently behind herself, leaving Jack alone with the mystery man.

Jack stares at him, trying desperately to figure out who he is. He's got a young face and a slight build, but he must be in his twenties, older than Jack.

He snuffles in his sleep, shifting slightly. Jack shuts his eyes quickly, he can feel his hands shaking again, a ball of worry coiling in his gut at the overwhelming sensation of just not _getting_ something.

He lies there, perfectly still, focusing on keeping his breathing under control until the door opens up, and he hears the familiar click of his Mom's heels. Jack opens his eyes, finding a kind, and familiar doctor's face. "Hey, Dr. Hammett," he says.

His mom smiles at that, and Dr. Hammett let out a slight laugh. "Good to see you remember me, it's been a while."

Jack frowns, shifting slightly to try and sit up as best he can. His ribs ache, and his head throbs at the movement, but he manages to get himself sitting. "Has it?"

There's silence at that. It dropped so quickly, the smile falling suddenly from his mother's face. Jack glances to the corner, Eric is awake, staring at him intently, face not betraying anything.

"I'm just going to ask you some questions, Jack," Dr. Hammett says, sitting down next to him, and pulling out a torch from his lab coat pocket. "Don't worry if you're not sure of the answers."

"Okay." Jack says, as Dr. Hammett pulls on his eyelid and shines the light at his eye. Jack tries to ignore it.

"Do you know why you're here Jack? Do you remember what happened?" Dr. Hammett says, switching to the other eye.

"No, no I don't-"

"You hit your head," his mom tells him. "On the ice. Your helmet came off."

"I..." Jack pauses, frowning to himself. "I'm _playing_ again?"

Dr. Hammett pockets his light. "Jack, can you tell me what year it is?"

Jack frowns, "Uh, 2008?"

There's silence at his answer. After a moment, Eric gets up from his seat and walks out of the room without a so much as a look at Jack. His mom gives him a distraught look. "Dr. Hammett-"

"I think," Dr. Hammett says slowly, "I'm going to need to get a specialist."

"That's not right, is it?" Jack asks, things clicking into place. He feels like he's about to snap. Everyone is talking _around_ him, no one talking _to_ him about his own god damn life. "Can you tell me what the hell is going on?"

"I'm afraid, Jack, that you appear to be suffering from amnesia. It's 2017, in fact..."

The doctor's words fade out to a dull drone at that. Jack can't bring himself to focus on what's going on around him, it feels like he's been plunged underwater. _2017_ , that would mean that he was twenty six? Twenty seven? What month even is it? Apparently he's still playing hockey, probably for some Saturday league. God, he probably has some sort of soul destroying _job._ Well, that was best case scenario, it's not like people would be clamoring to hire him what with no further education and a very public rehab stint.

"Mom," he says, his voice breaking, "Mom, _I-"_

"I'll leave you two alone for a moment while I arrange a meeting with a specialist," Dr. Hammett says, before leaving the room. His mom immediately sits down on his bed. He shuffles over slightly and she swings her legs up, gathering him into her arms. His ribs ache again with the movement, but he isn’t exactly a stranger to pain.

"You seem old," He finally settles on, which, yeah, perhaps wasn't the nicest thing he could've said, but his mom laughs anyway.

"So do you."

"Yeah but I can't see myself," Jack counters. "And to the rest of you I look the same as always."

"A bit black and blue," his mom corrects, gently stroking her fingertips over his cheek. He winces at the pain; she must have touched a bruise. "We're gonna get you the best help we can, okay?"

"Mom," Jack says. "I can't take _more_ money from you, with rehab-"

"Oh honey," she says, sadness spreading across her face. "Don't even think about that. That got you well, I'm just sorry that it got that far."

"I'm..." Jack hesitates, voice cracking. "I'm better, though, right?"

"Jack," she says, stroking his hair. "Yes, you're better. I've never seen you this happy."

Jack thinks back to the man in the armchair, Eric, and wonders where he fits into all of this.

 

-

 

Jack falls asleep again quickly; that seems to be all he can do anymore, too exhausted to even think. It feels like he's only just closed his eyes when his mom wakes him back up as a Dr. José, comes in.

“Hi, Jack, is it?”

“Uh, yes?”

“I’m Dr. José,” he gives him a smile. “Big fan, actually.”

“Oh,” Jack says, frowning, “Uh, sorry, I guess-”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I hear that you’ve been having some issues. Now I just want to ask you a few questions…”

Over the next ten to fifteen minutes, Dr. José asks a lot of questions that Jack doesn't know the answer to, but he assures him that that was okay, to be expected even, after what Jack’s been through.

He feels more confused than ever by the time the doctor closes his notebook and gets to his feet. His mom is in the corner, watching him with her sad gaze. Jack has had almost as much as he can bear of that look, of causing that look.

"Well, Mr. Zimmermann," Dr José says. "The good news is that you don't seem to be having issues with forming memories. If things start not adding up, or people tell you they spoke with you recently and you have no recollection I will ask that you get in touch with us immediately, but as you can remember waking yesterday and the conversations you had with your parents, I don't think we have to worry about anterograde amnesia. What it appears that you are suffering from Mr. Zimmermann is retrograde amnesia. We'll run some more tests, scans, make sure everything still looks okay up there, but oddly enough I don't think you have much to worry about, your stats look good, you don't seem to have any other issues with motor function or speech."

Don’t have much to worry about, Jack thinks angrily; he can't remember nine years of his life!

He swallows. "So, what can I do?"

Dr. José gives him a sympathetic smile, "Unfortunately there is not much we can do. The brain is mostly still a mystery to us. In most cases, people do regain their memories, or the majority of them. It _is_ slightly concerning that you have lost so much time, however, but then in practice this can tell us very little about the odds of a full recovery."

Jack felt numb. Nine years.

"So," his mom asks. "What's next?"

"Live your life," Dr. José says, as if that's even possible. "As best you can. Hopefully if you return to your routine things will fall into place, so to speak. Memories usually come back through a process called spontaneous recovery, we unfortunately don't have a way to trigger this, however. I would maybe give the hockey a miss for a while though, let your body recover, and we can arrange a recurring appointment to track your amnesia and recovery."

Dr. José turns to his mother, "I'll count on you to catch him up to date with his life, if you or his father can perhaps stay with him until he's a bit more settled, I think that would be advantageous."

"What about taking him home?" His mom asks. "To Canada."

"I wouldn't recommend it, frankly," Dr. José says. "It would be best for him to get back into his routine, and resume his life, rather than put it on hold indefinitely."

Indefinitely.

He was describing the possible return of his memories as _indefinite._ Shit.  

"I understand," his mom says, getting up to shake Dr. José hand. "Thank you for your help."

"Let me know if you have any further questions, and we'll schedule another appointment to see how you're healing up in a few weeks," He says, giving Jack a thin smile before she turns and leaves the room.

Eric's outside the door when Dr. José steps out. He pauses to speak to him. Jack wonders if they're talking about him. They must be He very much doubts they have a great deal in common.

"Oh, sweetie," his mom says. She looks heartbroken which makes his gut clench and twist. He's let her down, again. "Let's piece this all together then. I'll go get your dad."

She leaves the room, pausing just outside the door to talk to Eric. Eric's face is tense, his eyes slightly rimmed red, but then Jacks in no state to point fingers, he looks positively _ghoulish._

Eric gives Jack's mom a tense nod, then quick hug before he pushes open the door and steps into Jack's room, holding two cups of coffee.

There's a beat of silence, Eric is looking at him with the same fear and suspicion that Jack would afford a wild dog.

"So," Eric starts. "2008, huh? I guess you don't know me then."

His accent is southern. _Very_ southern. Jack shakes his head. "Sorry."

Eric perks up like he's about to make a joke but then his face falls flat. "Not your fault, or, I mean, I guess it is, slightly. _Ch_ _rist_."

There's a pause where Jack doesn't know what to say, how to comfort this man. Eric clears his throat, again, before thrusting a coffee cup towards him. "Here, I got you this, the doctor said you're okay for coffee, and I reckon by now you must be hitting quite the caffeine crash."

Jack does feel bone tired, but then he isn’t sure how much of that he could solely pin down to coffee. He takes a tentative sip from the Starbucks cup that Eric had put down and is unable to hide a grimace at the bitterness.

Eric frowns, "Is something wrong?"

"Sorry, it's just so... _bitter_. Is there any sugar in it? Milk?"

Eric pauses before reaching over and swapping the cup with his own. "You... you used to like black coffee. Guess it must've been an acquired taste."

Jack takes a sip of the new cup, it was much sweeter, with hints of cinnamon. "Thanks."

They're silent once more. God, Jack doesn't know what to _say_ to this man, whoever he is.

Eric clears his throat. "I'll answer some questions for you, if you want."

Jack nods, "Thanks, uh-"

He freezes, attention attracted by the screen in the corner of the room where his name is plastered across the bottom of the news panel. "Can you put that up please, Eric?"

Eric glances to the screen, his expression knotting with worry as he catches sight of the headline. "Jack, I don't think-"

"Eric, _please,"_ Jack huffs impatiently. Eric complies, grabbing the remote from the bottom of his bed and un-muting the TV, sighing as he does so.

"- _No news on yet Zimmermann's condition, but Ron, what do you make of it? I mean, I know the saying 'no news is good news', but in this case, if Zimmermann was okay I would assume the Falconers would be singing it loudly from the rooftops, since they're through to the second round."_

_"I think you've hit the nail on the head there, Jimmy-"_

Jack recognizes that piece of shit analyst, remembers his cutting voice from all his jibes about Jack's rehab stint back from the last hospital bed he was stuck in.

"Jack, you don't have to watch this-"

"Shush," Jack said, leaning forward. He's on the _news_.

" _I mean, just look at the clip from yesterday-"_

The presenters faces disappear, replaced with a clip from hockey match. Jack can see himself, almost unrecognizable. His hair is so short and face aged, and he's wearing a fucking jersey with his own name on it. He watches himself throwing his gloves down on the ground then he and another player - Seth Offill, Ron's narration helpfully supplies - start to fight. The recording of the fight's pretty shaky, not the best angle, but Jack can see his face, it may be older than he's used to but it's still him, and there's no mistaking the rage in his expression. He spots Eric flinch out of the corner of his eye.

" _N_ _ow, it's not like Zimmermann to get into a fight. He's always shied away from that side of hockey, not like Bad Bob-"_

_"Bad Bob, now_ that _was someone who could throw a punch."_

_"Offill has remained silent on what exactly he said to Zimmermann, the poor kid seems pretty cut up about what's happened. Now, Jimmy, if you watch here, this uppercut is what send's Zimmerman's helmet flying off."_

Jack watches his helmet fly, then watches as Offill's feet go out from under him, and he hits the deck, ass first, pulling Jack over with him with the tight grip he had on his jersey. Jack's entire body flips, just the angle and the speed it happens at means he's lifted clean from the ice and he goes down, head first.

The video cuts away, fading back to the presenters, Jimmy and Ron, " _I've seen people retire for less. It's been said before that the hardest thing you can hit out there is the ice, and Zimmermann hit it_ hard. _Really such a shame when the kid was just getting his act together._ "

Eric picks up the remote quickly and mutes the TV again. "Don't listen to that guy, he's an idiot-"

"I was in the NHL?" Jack says softly, still staring at the screen, at the photograph of his face up there.

"What?"

"I made it? To the NHL?" Jack repeated, still staring blankly. "I’m playing professionally?

Eric gives him a small smile. "Yeah, Jack, you made it. You're with the Providence Falconers, signed with them June, twenty-fifteen, you're in your second season."

Second season. So he'd been what, twenty-four when he'd started? "What did I do?" Jack asks, before clarifying; "In-between."

"Coached a pee-wee team for a while, you still keep in touch with them all. They call you Coach Zed, it's adorable," Eric says, his tone fond. "Then, you headed to Samwell University in twenty-ten. That's where we met."

The way he said _we_ , like it meant something, like there was a history behind them that Jack could only scratch the surface of. It throws him. This boy, Eric, was standing in his hospital room, telling him all about _his_ life. It's too much. He can't match up to his expectations, not against his future self. Current self?

"Could you go get my parents, Eric, I just..." Jack pauses, staring at his hands. "I can't do this. I just- _please_."

"Okay," Eric says. "Sorry, I'll go get them."

He leaves the room quietly, leaving Jack alone for the first time since he woke up. Jack looks at the TV again. They're showing another clip of him, this time he's being stretchered off the ice. He first spots the blood dripping down the ice as they move him, leaving a trail, before he then sees a flash of blond at the sidelines, pushing through the crowd of his team mates. The camera zooms in; it's Eric, his face twisted in worry.

He didn't even notice his parent's coming back in until he hears his Mom clear her throat. He startles, "Sorry, I-"

"Jack it's fine," his dad assures him, glancing at the TV. "Eric says you were asking for us?"

Jack feels his stomach twisting. He'd worked so hard to keep everything with Parse a secret, to keep _himself_ a secret. Yet, here he is, ten years later apparently playing in the NHL with this flamboyant stranger sleeping in the corner of his hospital room.

"Am I..." Jack pauses. His hands are shaking, but he forces his chin up to look his parents in the eye. "Am I _out?"_

He's spent so long burying this part of himself, convincing himself that he doesn't like boys, _can't_ like boys, not if he wants to play. Hockey was all that mattered.

His papa's face twists as he sinks down into the chair next to him. "Not completely. Not publicly anyway, but to the people that matter? Yes, Jack, you've told us."

Eric must be his boyfriend. That's the only way he can piece this all together, it's the only thing that makes sense. He must be dating that small, southern boy and he cannot fathom _why._ Why he would risk his _dream_ when he's apparently just got his life on back on track.

"But-" Jack rubs at his eyes. "I don't understand _why_."

"Oh, sweetie," His mom says. "Why what?"

"Why am I dating him _?_ I mean, I like girls, I just-" Jack can't find the words, the panic rising in his chest. He stares at the door, where Eric had left. "I can date girls, I don't have to do this, I don't have to be with him. So why am I risking my _dream_?"

"Son," his dad says, tone surprisingly stern. "Maybe consider that your dreams didn't stay the same."


	2. Chapter 2

The doctors don't keep him that long in the hospital, another two days for observation then send him home with instructions to take it easy, be patient, and to come back if anything changes. His pinky knuckle is fractured but Jack's not really sure what the difference would be between that and a break. His dad says that he needs to teach him how to punch again; he shouldn't be hitting anyone with his ring finger or pinky. The pressure should always be on the first two knuckles.

Jack nods along dutifully.

If there weren't concern over his neurological problems he would've probably been able to play in the rest of the finals. As it stands though, the doctor's orders are to stay out for the remainder of the season, to be safe, they said. They're putting him on rest to cover themselves and he knows it.

His parents catch him up on his life as best they can. They give him back his cell phone, Eric supplying the password, and he just stares at it for ten minutes, confounded.

The phone is so... _new._ He doesn’t know where to start. IPhones had only just come out when he left rehab, and he certainly hadn't had one back then; Jack had never been worried about a flashy phone. Now he’s staring at a shiny screen as the phone buzzes endlessly from a backlog of notifications. Hundreds of messages and updates from names he does not recognize flash across the screen. There are probably close friends among well wishes from fans, but it’s not like he can tell the difference so he ignores them all.

He does open up the photos app, momentarily, hoping for some sort of reminder of his life, of who he is.

The albums are full of Eric; his face litters the screen from a thousand different angles. Photos of their heads pushed up together grinning from ear to ear, of Eric cooking, him in his underwear, dancing around in a bedroom. Their bedroom. He shuts the app quickly, heart thundering in his chest. The photos, the evidence of his life with this _man_ he doesn't even know-

It feels voyeuristic, like something he shouldn't be seeing, but in his mind he keeps replaying how _happy_ he looked.

He's in the backseat of his parent's rental car, a jacket pulled over his head. They'd snuck out the back of the hospital since there was a few paparazzi by the entrance. Jack doesn't want any photos of him like this, doesn't want people making money off of it. The Falconers have been completely silent on his condition other than an update on the official twitter, which his dad checked with him before the posted. He appreciated it, the privacy they were allowing him, but it does mean that the paps are clamoring for any information.

One of them dressed up as a doctor and got as far as asking a nurse for his room number before someone figured out who he really was. That was a close call. Jack shudders to think what would've happened if that guy had gotten his chart.

They were scum, the lot of them. Jack had always hated the attention.

Once they're on the road Jack pulls his jacket from over his head, gently to be wary of the stitches, and stares silently out the window at the unfamiliar city that was apparently his home. The drive feels achingly reminiscent to when he overdosed and his parents drove him to rehab.

" _Ça va, Jack?"_ His papa asks, glancing at him in the rear-view mirror.

" _Ouais, papa,_ " Jack says, blankly.

He continues to gaze out of the window, vacantly watching the city pass by him. He doesn't know what to do, how to fill the shoes left behind by the well adjusted version of himself. He can't even stop his hands from shaking.

They pull into an apartment complex, his dad smoothly parking the car in a spot. Jack unclips his seatbelt and tumbles out of the car. His body feels too big, too _broad_ , so he shrinks his shoulders, hunching in on himself. His mom taps the car they've parked next to.

"This is yours," she says. "Well, you share it with Eric."

Jack can't remember how to drive. Last thing he remembers he _couldn't_ drive; he’d spent his teenage years too focused on hockey to give him the time to learn. Now he has his own car.

He follows his parents out of the parking garage and into an elevator, catching sight of himself in the mirror on the back wall, his face gaunt with a yellowing bruise on one eye. He's expressly avoided mirrors so far, the unfamiliar face staring back at him was too much. He flinches and twists away, fixing his gaze on the matte door and not the reflective, shiny sides.

The elevator opens and they all step out into the hallway. His papa is carrying his bags walking one pace in front of him, but he feels his mother's hand intertwine with his own.

"Eric's already home - he said he'd make some dinner," she says, squeezing his hand.

Eric.

His boyfriend.

Jack tenses but if his mom feels it she doesn't say a word. "Mom," Jack said, "Mom, I-"

"We're here," his dad announces, coming to a stop in front of the door. He holds out a cluster of unfamiliar keys to Jack, placing one in particular between his fingers. "It's that one to open the door."

Jack numbly steps forward, pushing the key into and twisting until the door unlocks with a click.

The apartment - _his_ apartment - is light, and airy, with large windows and blue walls with hardwood floors. His dad drops his bags, and calls out "Eric?"

Eric appears from what must be the kitchen, wearing an apron, flour dusted on his nose. He looks tired but he's smiling at them. "Hey, how was the drive? Y'all manage to avoid the paps on the way out of the hospital?"

Jack watches as first his papa, then his mother pull Eric into a hug, grinning widely at him with unabashed affection. "We made it out just fine," his dad answers.

Eric looks over to him, giving him a sympathetic smile, "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Jack says stiffly. "Where's the bathroom?"

"Oh, uh, just through those doors, second on the left."

Jack heads through to the bathroom without another word, hearing the echoing silence between his parents and Eric. He shuts the door behind him and locks it, stepping in front of the sink and turning on the cold tap to splash his face with. His pulse is racing, so he focuses on his breathing. He doesn't even know what's gotten him so worked up but he can't get control over his own body.

He stands there, slowly drawing breath into his lungs, hands braced on the sink until his body finally stops freaking out.

He looks up at the medicine cabinet above the sink at his reflection in the mirror. It feels _wrong_. He looks so wrong, so different. His hair is shorter now, neater, but it probably makes press junkets easier. Jack mostly can't get over how _old_ he looks, the lines creeping into the corners of his eyes, across his forehead. There's a new scar hidden in his hairline that he can't remember getting. Jack fixates on it, trying desperately to figure out how it got there. How he got here, to this point in his life.

That's when he hears a door slam open. There's his parents’ muffled voices, speaking sharply, but Jack can't make out what they're saying.

He takes a deep breath and heads back into the living room. Eric's still there, and his parents, along with an unfamiliar brown haired woman.

"Jack," She says, softly. "Hey, sorry, if this isn't a good time, I can come back later-"

"Stay," Jack says, shrugging his shoulders, "It's not like I've got anything else to be doing, eh?" He tries for humour but it falls flat.

The woman sits down on his couch and Jack settles himself in an armchair next to her.

"We'll leave you," his papa says, steering his mom and Eric out of the room, down the hall.

"I'm George, well, Georgia, but everyone calls me George. I'm your GM," She says, pulling out a ring binder. "I brought you to the Falconers two years ago. We're close."

Jack nods, before glancing in the direction of the door his family had left through. "Uh, do you know..."

"About you and Bits?" She asked, surprised. "Yeah, I've known since the start. That's not why I'm here, though, The team, uh, we need to make a statement about your condition."

Jack freezes, "I don't want– I mean–"

"Jack," Georgia says, holding a hand out to calm him. "We don't have to make a _truthful_ one not if you don't want. We can omit the amnesia if you would like."

Jack nods stiffly. "I don't want them to know that I'm... back to where I was. It would be bad for the team."

Georgia looks like she wants to say something, but instead grabs her phone and types something out. "We make a statement, say that you're doing well, but due to a bad concussion you'll be sitting out the rest of this season."

Jack nods, "What about training?"

"What about training?" Georgia repeats back to him.

"Can I... come back? Do light exercise? The doc gave me a clean bill of health,” Jack lies. “Just need to be careful about contact for a while, they don’t want me to get another concussion." He holds Georgia's gaze, imploring her. The thought of being stuck in that unfamiliar apartment, nothing to do, is already driving him insane. "Georgia, please, I've gotta do something."

She's hesitant, but finally she nods. "No contact. I'll let the coach know you're coming back on Monday."

His shoulders sag with relief. Finally, something he could do. "Thanks."

Georgia gets to her feet, pulling her coat over her shoulders. She leans in, gives him a brief hug, and heads towards the door, before stopping abruptly, hand on the handle.

"Jack?"

"Hm?"

"Don't... don't be too hard on yourself, if you don't just bounce back."

Jack doesn't know what to say to that but he nods, which seems to be enough for her. She stops and gives him a smile. Then, Georgia is gone, leaving Jack alone in an unfamiliar room that's meant to be his home.

 

-

 

Just after Georgia leaves, Eric’s timer goes off signaling that dinner is finished; he seems to be something of a cook if the way he moves around the kitchen is anything to go by. Jack’s parents help him set the table because Jack doesn’t know where anything is. He sits at the table and hides his shaking hands.

His parents try to fill him in on the lives of people he knew in the Q as they eat. He’s shocked by how many of them have children. They occasionally ask Eric about people with names Jack doesn’t even slightly recognize so he feigns interest in the news about what they’ve been doing.

His apartment is only a two bedroom. His parents take the spare and leave Eric and Jack to have a terse discussion about who will take the sofa. Jack doesn't know how hard to push; Eric still feels like a stranger to him, but he keeps looking at Jack with this fond, sad expression that makes his stomach twist. Jack doesn't think he's ever met anyone with such large eyes.

Jack loses the fight when Eric argues that he can stretch out completely on their sofa, unlike Jack's 6"1 frame.

His bedroom is unassuming; there is a laundry basket in the corner, a couple of bedside tables, and what Jack assumes to be the door to a walk in closet. He sits himself down on the bed and finds a phone charger already plugged into the wall. He plugs in his cell even though he's not sure what he’ll use it for. At least now it will stop beeping at him about the battery being low.

There's a framed picture on the bedside table. Jack picks it up and tries to will himself to remember it being taken. In it, he’s standing with his arm wrapped around the shoulders a similarly tall man with a thick mustache, the two of them in graduation gowns. Eric's stood to one side of him, but past that all the faces are unfamiliar.

He's startled by a knock at the door. It's pushed open slowly, Eric's face peeking around the corner. "Sorry, uh, it's just I need something to sleep in; don't want your parents coming through in the morning to find me in my underwear."

Jack can feel his cheeks flushing, "Oh, uh, yeah, sure, come in. Sorry, I didn't think about that."

"It's fine," Eric says. He glances to the picture clutched in Jack's grasp. "That's your graduation picture."

Jack resists the urge to say something rude. "Yeah, I figured."

Eric swallows, frozen in the doorway. "Uh, the guy, you're with, his name is Shitty. He's been asking after you."

"Yeah?" Jack asked, deciding not to question what kind of guy would be called _Shitty_. Hockey.

"Well, goodness, they all have, the team I mean. But you and Shitty are best friends, he's worried about you," Eric frowns, rubbing at his forehead. "If you feel up to it, he'd like to come see you. If it's not too soon."

It is too soon. Jack still doesn't even know who _Eric_ is. "Uh, sure," he says, dropping his gaze back to the frame clutched in his hands. "I'm meant to try and act like normal, aren't I?"

"I'll text him," Eric stalls, before stepping into the room and heading to the opposite nightstand. He pulls open the drawer, yanks out some clothes and heads back out the room. "Goodnight, Jack, let me know if you need anything."

Jack nods, putting the photo back down on the nightstand. "Yeah, will do."

Jack stirs early in the morning, so early that he can just see the end of the sunrise peeking through his blinds, sending orange light streaming through the room. The bed feels huge and empty for reasons he can't fathom. he lies there wallowing until his phone chirps.

The notification on the screen says he has a text from Parse. Jack realizes no one has mentioned Kenny to him. He swipes open the phone without much thought, opening up the text.

**Today** 6.15 AM

Call me

You call me. I can't work this thing.

 

Jack has to wait a minute before a photo of Parse's face lights up the screen, baseball cap still slanted backwards on his head. He hits the green button.

"J _aaaa_ ck," Parse says, his voice slurring. Jack can hear a thumping baseline in the background, and it's so achingly familiar, unlike everything else he's been involved with recently that he just about tears up. "Jack it's late."

Jack laughs quietly. "It's early where I am."

Kent huffs down the line. "Are you okay? I saw that hit you took, it looked _bad._ " Jack can tell he's hammered, Jack _knows_ what Kent sounds like when he's hammered, but he can't bring himself to care much. He can still remember sitting in a hospital bed, declining calls from Kent over and over until he stopped phoning. For now though, Kent is a thread of familiarity between what he remembers and his new life. He wishes he was there.

"No," Jack says, letting out a shaky exhale. "Yes. I don't know. I'm out for the season."

"I figured," Kent said, before cursing. "That's shitty, bro."

"Yeah," Jack says, leaning back against his headboard. So he and Kent are friends now? They've made up? God, he wishes that there was a manual for this shit. "Could've been worse tho, man."

"You seem... different."

"Different how?"

"I dunno. I'll call you later, when I figure it out, Zimms," Parse says decisively. Jack snorts. "I will, I promise. We should talk."

"I'll believe it when I hear it," Jack says. "Bye, Parse, drink some water."

Jack pulls his phone away from his ear, hitting the red button on the screen. He toys with the idea of trying to go back to sleep, but that's never worked for him in past. He swings his legs out of bed and gets to his feet. He's still moving gingerly with his tender ribs but he's had worse, played through worse. He grabs a hockey jersey that's draped over the back of his desk chair and pulls it over his head. He normally wouldn't think twice about walking around shirtless, but he is uncomfortably aware of Eric and his presence in the apartment.

It's weird because Eric's probably seen him shirtless a bunch of times. Probably. Definitely. They're definitely sleeping together. Jack has almost definitely had sex with him.

Jack tiptoes out of his room towards the kitchen. Eric's still sleeping on the couch, sprawled out on his stomach, one leg propped up on the back of the sofa, arms flung out everywhere. He takes a surprising amount of space for such a small guy.

He finds his dad already awake in the kitchen, sitting on a stool with the morning paper and a glass of water in front of him. It wasn't surprising. his dad had always been an early riser. Jack reaches up to the cupboard to pull out some filter paper and grounds. He sets the coffee maker to brew before sitting down next to his dad, who was staring at him intently.

"Things coming back to you?" He asked, voice soft.

Jack blinked, frowning, "Huh? No... not really. The doc said they didn't really have a time frame for this."

"I just ask," his dad says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "because of how easily you prepared the coffee pot there."

Jack blinks. He hadn't even been thinking about it, "Guess it must just be a habit or something, like skating."

"Be patient, kid, you'll get there."

Jack blinks, taking in a deep breath. The coffee pot gurgles in the background. "I just... it all feels wrong, _off_. I don't know all these people, but they all know me. It's like I'm letting them down. I'm not the friend they expected, the person that they _know_."

"Jack you can't think like that-" his dad starts, but Jack's on a roll, frustration boiling over.

"I don't know how to even call anyone, Papa! I don't know who these people texting me are, who I'm close to, who I'm not close to." Jack takes a deep breath, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, trying not to cry again. He's cried too much lately. "There's pictures of people _everywhere_ in this place and I don't know who any of them are! And then there's Eric, who I'm meant to be in love with, but I can't remember the first thing about him! What is it that's got me so crazy about that boy, eh? Why am I willing to risk my career for him?"

"Jack, now that's not fair. It's not exactly like-"

His papa froze, looking behind Jack as the floorboards creak. Jack spun in the seat to find Eric with his chin held up, decidedly ignoring Jack's gaze.

"Coffee fresh?"

There's an awful, scratching silence. Jack feels like he's about to throw up, guilt thrumming through him. "Eric, I didn't-" Jack starts, but stops abruptly when Eric spins on his heel and fixes him with the sharpest glare Jack has withstood in years. He can feel disappointment radiating off of him, which isn't fair, not really. It's not like Jack choose for this to happen.

"Honey, it's 6.30 in the morning," Eric says bluntly, his tone harsher than his words. "Can you just... not."

Jack opens his mouth to say something, before shaking his head. He can't do this. He takes a breath. "I'm going on a run."

"Jack, you can't-" his papa starts.

"I'll take my cell!" he calls back into the kitchen as he fled. It takes him at least five minutes to piece together all his running gear, but it isn’t winter at least, so he doesn’t need to wrap up. The only pair of sneakers he can find that looked appropriate for running were luminous yellow.

Was he the kind of guy to wear luminous yellow running shoes, now? Apparently so, since he was tugging them on anyway and doing up the laces.

He doesn't even glance to the living room or kitchen as he goes past. Instead, Jack just grabs what he hopes are his keys from the dish by the door before heading out with a bang.

Once he's out the building and free, he's off like a shot, running down the empty streets with a steady pace, the stress and anxiety of the morning dissipating away with every step.

He doesn't know where he's going, doesn't recognize the streets so initially he tries to keep a relatively straight path. After a couple of miles, though, he spots the river down an avenue and heads towards the water. The sun is glistening off of it and there's trees lining the path; it looks a lot nicer than the concrete streets that he's currently running through.

Jack quickly gets swept up in the _freedom_ of the run, not having to defend himself, or think, or anything really. He doesn't need to be anyone. He's not letting anyone down, he can just _run._

He doesn't notice that he's lost until suddenly he's _really_ lost.

He curses, slowing to a jog, glancing around for some street signs. Not that it helps; he doesn't remember his address, or anything really, doesn't want to ask anyone and end up having his face on the morning news.

He sighs, pulling out his cell and swiping it open. He hesitates over the contacts list. There are several names on his favorites, including his parents, but at the top is the name _Bitty <3 _

Jack hits the call button. It would serve him right for Eric to not answer, but he does after just two rings, his voice high and anxious. "Jack, are you okay?"

"Yes," Jack assures him quickly. "Yeah, I'm just... I'm lost."

Eric pauses, "What?"

"I'm lost, I mean, I'm by the water, I can see a Starbucks but, I mean, there's a million Starbucks–"

Eric laughs down the line. "Stay where you are, I'll come get you."

"How will you find me?"

"We've got the find friends app set up," Eric said, like that answered anything. "I'll be there in five. Hang tight."

The line goes dead. Jack frowns at the screen He sits on a park bench to wait, leaning his head back, spreading his legs out and looking up to the sky. The sun is shining on his face, he can hear birds mixed in with the early morning traffic.

He should count himself as lucky, really, that he woke up in that hospital bed at all, firstly with the pills, and secondly with the head. It's hard to see it that way.

Jack's not sure exactly how long it takes before he hears a car pull up. Jack lifts his head, opening his eyes to blink at the car. Eric's in the driver's seat, looking at him with worry etched into his features. Jack feels a stab of guilt.

"Sorry," Jack says as he slides into the passenger seat. "I didn't mean to get lost, I just..."

"You got wrapped up in your head?" Eric asked, giving him a sympathetic smile, "Gosh, Jack, I'm used to that. You always ending up running too far away then I have to come get you." He holds out a bottle of water.

Jack takes it, drinking it gratefully, as Eric merges back into traffic. There's a slow, melodic tune coming out from the speakers. "Who's this?"

"Hmmm?"

"The music," Jack clarifies.

"Oh," Eric says, his eyes firmly on the road. "It's a guy called _Hozier_. He's a bit different from what I usually listen too."

Jack’s never been one for music, not really, but he can remember the bookshelf full of CDs in his living room. He figures they must all belong to Eric.

"I'm sorry," Jack says finally. "I just- this is really hard for me."

Jack watches as Eric's knuckles turn white, his grip tightening on the wheel as he takes in a deep shaking breath. "Jack, sweetie, this isn't a great time to have this conversation."

"I know," Jack says, staring down at his hands, clenched in his lap. "I'm sorry, I just- This isn't fair."

Eric's quiet at that for a minute. "No, no it's not."

The rest of the drive passes in silence as Eric drives smoothly back to his apartment, tucking the car into their spot with a familiar ease.

They remain in silence until they reach the elevator. "Oh, I forgot, Shitty texted me, he said he could come over Friday, if that's okay with you."

"Huh? Oh, right. Yeah, Friday's fine." Jack pauses. "What day is it?"

"Wednesday."

"Thanks," Jack says as the elevator doors open and they step inside. Eric hit's the floor button.

"Oh, uh, and I'm gonna be back in Samwell on Saturday, I'll be there overnight, but I'll be back on Sunday, uh, it's my graduation."

Jack freezes. "You're graduating?"

"Yeah, on Saturday, finally, god I thought that semester was never gonna end," Eric says absently.

"I, uh," Jack rubs the back of his neck. "I guess I thought you were already finished with college, like I am."

"I was a couple years below you," Eric explains.

"Do you want me to come?" Jack says after a minute. The elevator comes to a stop and they step out into the hallway. He walks slow; he wants this conversation over with before they're back at the apartment, back within earshot of Jack's parents.

It feels like he should go. That he would have been going, had everything not gone to shit.

Eric looks at him searchingly, "Thanks, for offering, that's, uh, that's really nice, but," Eric takes a deep breath. "It's probably better you don't. People would see you, especially now with your face all plastered in the papers and they might ask questions."

"Oh."

"Also, uh, Mama and Coach are coming and I've not told them about your whole... head thing. I don't want them to worry."

Jack doesn't know what to say to that. They're stood in front of his front door now, neither of them moving. "Thanks then," Jack says finally. "For thinking of me."

"No problem," Eric says, pulling his keys from his pocket and opening up the door.

 

-

 

Eric excuses himself to the kitchen when they get in, saying something about recording a video for his blog. Jack sits himself down on the sofa. His dad has a sports channel on.

"You wanna watch the match tonight? The Falconers are against the Rangers, it'll be tense," His dad looks at him, giving him a hopeful smile.

Jack nods, sitting down, "Yeah, I guess. I better support my team."

He looks at the TV; there's a highlight reel from the last game. Jack doesn't recognize anyone on his team.

"How are you doing?"

Jack blinks, then shrugs, "Uh, as well as can be expected. I guess."

His dad reaches over and squeezes his shoulder.

"How long are you and Mom planning to stay for?" Jack asks. It's been weighing on his mind, that they're crashing in his spare room, postponing their own lives.

"As long as you need."

"You should maybe head back soon, Papa," Jack forces himself to say. He wants to go with them, back to Canada, back to his home that he knows. "The doctor said I should try and just live my life, so... and I mean, I don't want to disrupt you two too much."

"Jack," his dad says softly. "You're not a burden. We want to help."

He wants to let them. He wants them to stay. "I'll be fine. Plus, Shitty's coming over on Friday so it'll probably be pretty busy here."

"Friday?" his dad repeats.

"I mean, I'm not chasing you out, just... see what kind of a flight you can get," he says.

"Okay," he says, "I'll talk to your mom, we'll see what we can do."

He gives his dad what he hopes is a reassuring smile before returning his attention to the TV. He's not watching it with any seriousness until he spots Georgia on screen, "Turn it up."

His dad complies. Jack's name is plastered across the bottom of the screen. there's an overwhelming noise of reporters and camera snaps until Georgia starts to speak.

"Okay everyone, now we all know why you're here. Jack Zimmermann obviously took quite a fall to the ice. He was kept in hospital for observation for a few days, but he's out now, and back home with his family and no ill effects, other than a couple bruises and a small hand fracture. Jack will be off for the rest of the season, to ensure he has enough time to heal properly before next season. Now is there any questions?" Georgia pauses, glancing around the crowd of reporters. "Uh, yes, you?"

"Yes, Will Rexin, Blue Ridge Times News, uh Ms Martin, has there been any thoughts about whether Mr Zimmermann will be joining you for another season? He's getting older and he won't _physically_ bounce back as quickly, it has been said that considering the fall that he took, this setback might be the end of his career."

"Jack has signed a three-year contract," Georgia says, her tone daring anyone to question her further. "Doctors, and Jack himself, have both said they believe he will be able to begin the next season as per usual, so I don't believe it the place of gossip journalists to question his health status any more than that. Any further questions? Yes...?"

"Olivia Gajdzik, Daily Post, do you have any comments regarding the photos leaked of Mr Zimmermann yesterday."

Georgia frowns, Jack can see it, the stiffening of her spine. "Photos?"

"Yes, the photos taken of him earlier today, have you seen them?"

"Yes, I have, and I don't know what you would like me to say about those or what relevance they have."

"Well if Mr Zimmermann is already up and exercising, is it really necessary for him to sit out the rest of the cup?"

Georgia's face hardens. "While it's obvious from these photos that Jack is okay, and getting back to his regular activities, a short jog is not the same as a grueling hockey match. Also, while we're discussing this, I would like to _condemn_ the paparazzi that have been harassing him during this time. Jack Zimmermann is recovering from a traumatic injury, and he deserves his privacy."

"Ms Martin, if I may-" the reporter starts back.

"No, I will not answer more questions regarding paparazzi photos and internet gossip. That will be all for today, thank you all for your time."

Georgia steps off the stage, ignoring the squawking of reporters as she does so. Jack pushes himself to his feet, heading to the kitchen, "Hey Eric, Eric, I-"

He opens the door and freezes in place when he sees Eric stood in the kitchen, talking to a camera, mixing something by hand.

"Oh, Jack, hi, sorry I'm doing a video, It's alright, I'll cut this," Eric says.

"Sorry, I ruined your take," Jack says stiffly, glancing between Eric and the camera propped up on a pile of books.

"Oh gosh, it's fine, don't worry about it, you wouldn't believe the number of retakes I had to do back when I used to shoot at the Haus, what with people interrupting me all the time."

"The Haus?"

"Uh, it's the hockey frat house, busy place."

"Oh, sorry."

"No, don't be," Eric says. "What do you need?"

"Uh, they were talking about photos of me showing up online, on the news, and I was wondering if you could help me find them."

"Sure, I can do that," Eric says, grabbing his tablet from the counter where it was propped up with a recipe on it. He taps away on the screen, frowning slightly before finally handing it over to Jack, "Nothing too big, don't think it would be getting any traction if your name wasn't guaranteeing hits right now."

Jack looks down at the screen, at the pictures of himself he hadn't even realized were being taken. It's when he was on the bench, lost, waiting on Eric to pick him up. There's a couple once Eric pulls up as well, a brief glimpse of gold hair visible through the open door.

Jack scrolls down to the comments underneath the photo. It's a lot of people talking in all caps with the kind of intensity that Jack would've thought was reserved for film stars and teen heartthrobs.

At the bottom of the post there's a string of faint text

 

_Tags; Jack Zimmermann, Hockey, Hockey Players, The Mystery Blond Boy, MBB_

 

_OMGZimmermand4lyf commented 5 hours ago_

God that _black eye_ , poor baby. Also, is it just me or does he look... off?

 

_FalconersNo1! commented 4 hours ago_

I think he's probably just tired, it's good to see him up and about though. ANYWAY can we talk more about mystery blond boy?! OMG He's been _everywhere_ lately.

 

_Rosemann commented 4 hours ago_

Did u see him when jack got hurt?!!!?!?! GOD HIS FACE IT KILLED ME, they're definitely boning, no one can tell me otherwise. U don't look that distraught at an accident unless your getting the D from someone.

 

Underneath the comment was a photo taken of Eric, standing by the edge of the rink as Jack was being stretchered off. The obvious distress was painted on Eric's face for the world to see.

Jack swallows, before handing back the iPad to Eric, deciding to read no further. "Thanks, uh, thanks for that."

"Sorry," Eric says, putting the tablet on the counter. "I mean, for not being more subtle, I just... I was scared. I've never seen you take a hit like that before."

"No, no," Jack says, shaking his head. "It's fine, I get it. Thanks. Uh, Eric?"

"Yeah?"

"Do I have an official social media account or something?"

"An Instagram, why?"

Jack paused, "Can you take a picture of me and Mom and Papa and post it for me please? I mean, it'd probably be good to show everyone I'm... fine, for lack of a better word."

"Yeah Jack, I can do that."

 

-

 

The four of them watch the game together on the sofa later that night. His mom makes a casserole for them all which they eat off their knees around the living room table.

The Falconers are good. Very good. Jack can see it in the way they play together, the movement of the puck between them that they must be a close team, must be good friends.

A small part of him hopes they lose. He sit on the, edge of his seat as the match proceeds, dreading them making a goal. It's spiteful and jealous and he doesn't really care. He's earned the right to be spiteful and jealous.

They win, 3-1. His dad cheers, pulling him into a hug.

"You guys might go all the way this year," he says, grinning ear to ear.

God, Jack hopes not. He should be there, playing with them and instead he's on his sofa watching the game on his TV. They can't go to the cup finals without him. Jack can't miss that. That would be a special sort of torture.

"Well," his mom says, before stifling a yawn. "I think I'm going to go to bed."

"Oh okay," Jack says.she gets to her feet leans down to give him a kiss on the cheek.

"Bob, are you coming?"

"Huh?"

"I'm going to bed, are you coming?"

"Alicia, it's eight thir-" His dad blinks, his eyes widening, "Oh, actually, now that you mention it, I am _exhausted._ Goodnight boys."

He gets up and claps Jack on the shoulder before following his mom towards their bedroom. Jack and Eric sit in stunned silence until they hear the bedroom door slam shut.

"Jesus," Jack says softly.

Eric snorts, "Those two never change."

"God, why can't they just be in a loveless, sexless marriage, like most people's parents," Jack whined, leaning back on the sofa, screwing the palms of his hands into his eyes.

"Hey, how about," Eric starts. "We look through some photographs, I'll let you know who people are, tell you the stories I can remember?"

"Uh..."

"I mean, if you want to. No pressure or anything, but, it might... y'know, jog something."

Eric looks so hopeful. Jack swallows down the lump in his throat. "Okay, I guess we could do that."

Eric bounds across the room to the bookshelves, pulling out a large, brown photo album.

"You, uh, you enjoyed taking photographs a lot. You took a class senior year," Eric says. He sits back down next to Jack and tenderly opens the album. It's thick with photos filling every page.

"So, uh, you organized this chronologically, so for the first bit, I don't really know too much, not more than you've told me, but..."

They sit for a couple hours, easily, with the photo album clutched between them. Eric flips through the pages while he explains the people and things.

It doesn't get less weird for Jack to be informed on what's happening in his life, on what he's done, on who his friends are, but he settles into it, letting the photos wash over him, trying to trigger some recollection.

It's not until Eric is almost flipping a page over when he glimpses a man in the corner of one of his pictures. Shitty, the guy from his graduation pictures, but his hair is long, and he's wearing nothing but an overly tight pair of pink, floral boxer briefs.

"Stop, go back," Jack says, leaning forward intently. He grabs the book from Eric and stares at the picture. "Shitty. That's... that's Shitty."

"Uh... yeah," Eric says, hesitantly. "Your best friend, Shitty."

"I, uh I remember him. Kind of. He's naked a lot, isn't he?"

Eric laughs, "Aw, bless. That's one way to put it. While he was writing his thesis _if_ he was wearing underwear I think I called that a win." Eric pauses. "Wait, Jack, are you saying... are you saying you remember him?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so. Not like, everything, just... flashes," Jack says, eyes still fixed on the photograph. "He wouldn't stop sitting on my bed naked."

Eric laughs again, sounding happier than Jack can ever remember him. "Oh goodness, Jack, this is great news though, right? I mean, that your memories are coming back."

"Yeah," Jack says. He flips through more pages, revealing more early pictures of his college life. "Yeah, I guess that's a good sign."


	3. Chapter 3

Jack has had his fair share of ordered rest in his lifetime. When he turned fourteen, he started running twice a day to improve his cardio. He gave himself shin splints within a week and was tied to a chair by his mother to recover.

He inflamed the cartilage in his knee at sixteen. That _hurt_ , till did, from time to time, but nothing like that first week when he couldn't walk anywhere. He could barely hobble further than the bathroom, ended up stuck on the ground floor and sleeping on the couch because the stairs felt like fire.

Jack is familiar with rest and it always felt like a special kind of punishment; he has been on the ice for longer than he can remember, it is all he knows how to do. Eat, sleep, train, eat, sleep, train.

He's never been very good at other hobbies.

Jack wakes up early, about half an hour before his alarm is due to go off. He lies there for ten minutes staring at a crack in the ceiling paint.

His apartment is so new, so flash, that the crack is an oddity. He wonders why it's there. He wonders if he should know.

Does he have hobbies, now? Did he learn how to fill his time with something other than a one-track obsession? Jack's never been good at balance, never been able to do anything half-way, it was always all or nothing.

He wonders if that's how he was with Eric.

 

-

 

That afternoon, he asks Eric to take him to the rink after they spend the morning watching some TV show that he's meant to love. He needs to get his skates on and do something familiar, something wouldn't make him feel like such an imposter.

"Anything else coming back to you?" Eric asks as he drives. Jack can tell that the question's more weighted than Eric wants to let on. He can hear the desperation in Eric’s voice.

Jack lets out a noncommittal grunt, "Yeah. No. I don't know. Flashes, here and there, uh, the time before college is becoming a little clearer."

"That's, that's good then," Eric says but Jack knows it's not what he wants to hear.

God, Jack wants to just remember him, remember _them._ If he at least had that then he could probably figure out the rest of his life and start living. He can't get over this relationship he's meant to have. It's obvious that it's hurting Eric. There's this awful, sinking guilt that overwhelms him and he can't stop recalling the photographs of them, of how happy they looked.

"No physical contact," Eric warns, his tone bright as he puts the car into reverse and peering over his shoulder. Jack watches his forearms flex as he turns the wheel, a knot forming in his stomach. Eric isn't exactly _his_ boyfriend, but in a sort of way he is. He was. Jack's not sure where the line falls on that.

"Promise," Jack says. It's not a lie, not really. If he was allowed, Jack knows he'd be on that ice again in a heartbeat, but there's no way the doctor will clear him for anything _real_ yet.

"Full padding as well," Eric says, continuing to order Jack around. Jack can see a smile playing on his face as he shifts the car into drive and pulls off, heading out of the parking garage.

"Believe me," Jack says, slouching in his seat, "I'm in no rush to get hurt again."

Jack reaches forward and hits the clip to open up the glove compartment. He grabs a few of the CD's, flipping through the barrage of pop-star names he doesn't recognize until he stops on a blank, shiny CD, with the words _Haus Mix 3_. He slides it into the CD player. Eric raises an eyebrow at him.

"We're only going to be five minutes."

Jack shrugs, "I should probably catch up on this kinda stuff, eh?"

The music is loud, and bouncing, and not really Jack's thing, but he leaves it on. Eric seems to be enjoying it, singing along to the tune under his breath.

" _House every weekend, house every weekend..."_

Eric is right; it barely takes any time before they're stopping outside the rink. "You want me to come in with you? Show you where the coaches office is?"

Jack shakes his head, "Georgia said that she'd meet me, uh- there she is, actually."

Georgia is standing at the door. She lifts a hand, waving to him.

"I'll text you, later," Jack says, pushing open the door. "When I need to get home, I mean."

"Oh," Eric says. "Uh, yeah, sure."

Jack shuts the door behind him, shrugging his bag over one shoulder and walking towards Georgia. She comes towards him, arms outstretched for a hug. He hugs her tightly; she may be unfamiliar, but she's looking at him with such warmth that he doesn't mind.

"Oh, Jack," she says, pulling away and holding him at arm's length, looking him up and down. "How are you doing?"

"Yeah, I'm doing okay. Eric and I looked through some photos last night. Bits of things are coming back."

Georgia nods, "Okay I've warned the team that they'll need to reintroduce themselves to you, and that it's not to make it to the press. They’re all good guys, Jack, don't be too..."

"Too what?" Jack asks sharply.

"Too _that_ ," Georgia counters, her voice firm. "Calm it, Zimmermann, everyone here just wants the best for you."

Jack purses his lips, following Georgia through the building. The halls are all white and sparsely decorated and Jack doesn't recognize any of it, it’s just another inside of a rink building, another plain, dimly lit maze.

Georgia leads him into a changing room, the familiar, slightly damp stench of locker-room overwhelming him. There's a cheer as he comes in and a couple of the team in various states of undress rush up to hug him. It's overwhelming; he doesn't know any of them even slightly, but Georgia calms them quickly.

"C'mon guys, give him a bit of space."

The team lets go of him, someone slapping him on the ass as he goes. Jack jumps.

"Man, Zimmermann you're more skittish than the first time you were here," someone says from the bench. He's got big, dark eyes and brown hair and is wearing nothing but his towel.

"Snowy, don't be a dick," the kid next to him says, glaring, before getting to his feet, holding out a hand. "Hi, I'm-"

"His name is _Poots,_ do not let him tell you different!" comes a booming, heavily accented voice. Jack spins to see another unfamiliar dark haired face grinning at him from the doorway.

None of this is making sense. it's too much, all these faces looking up at him, everyone so happy to see him there. They're expecting him to be _alright_ , but he's not alright, not really. Not in the ways that count.

Jack steps back, beginning to stammer, "Sorry, I, uh... I-"

"Jack, why don't you come with me to the office?"

Jack turns to find who he assumes to be his coach, standing in a suit with a clipboard in hand, concern covering his features. Jack nods and follows him out the door and down the hall. The coach leads him into an office, sitting down behind the desk. Jack automatically sits in the available chair. "Uh, sorry I'm not sure who you are."

"I'm Coach Korolick. I'm sorry about those guys; I tried to tell them to be careful and not to overwhelm you but…” he pauses, taking a breath. “Well, the team's been worried 'bout you."

"Sorry," Jack says, looking down at his hands.

"Don't be, kid, or at least, not about forgetting. Maybe apologize for starting that fight," Coach Korolick says, giving him a small smirk.

It's a joke, he thinks, but it doesn't feel like it. It feels like an accusation. "Uh, yeah, I mean, sorry for that. I don't know why I did it."

"You and me both, kid," Korolick says, sighing. "We've tried to get it out of Seth Offill, y'know, the guy you pounded on, but he's not budging. Think whatever stirred you up was something pretty nasty, kid probably feels ashamed."

"Uh, Coach?"

"Yes, Jack?"

"Do you mind if I... if I just go skate?" Jack tries. He doesn't need this. He doesn't need another stranger's concern.

Korolick looks at him carefully, frowning heavily, "I guess so. Just take it easy."

Jack pushes back his chair, getting up to his feet. He heads to the locker room. Most of the team are gone, but the guy who spoke to him first, and the one who punched him for it, Poots, are still sitting, talking animatedly amongst themselves.

"Oh, hey, Jack. We were hoping we'd see you again, uh, I'm Snowy, by the way."

"Hi," Jack says, giving him an awkward wave, for lack of something to do with his hands.

"So, are you wanting to get out on the ice? Me and Poots were thinking we could go another few rounds, y'know, if you want to?.

"Uh, yeah," Jack says, nodding, giving Snowy a smile. "That'd be great, I'm just - no contact, alright?"

"Yeah yeah," Poots says, rolling his eyes. Snowy starts to pull on his gear again. "Not like we can do much anyway, Coach will kill us if we're tired for the match tomorrow."

"You nervous?" Jack asks, sitting down on a bench and pulling his skates out of his bag. He was already wearing his gym gear, so he didn't need to change.

"Well, I mean, it's not been easy without _you_ ," Poots says, shrugging like this is no big deal. "We scraped through the quarterfinals but like, the Bruins are doing well this year - they already beat us this season, and that was with you, never mind without."

Jack doesn't know how to respond to this guy, this _kid_ , looking at him with such reverence and expectation. It makes him want to vomit.

"I mean," Jack ducks his head, focusing on lacing up his skates. "It's not like I'm the only one on the team, eh? You'll do great without me, I'm sure."

Poots hums, unconvinced, "See you out on the ice, Jack."

 

-

 

The time on the ice is good for Jack. It clears his head, letting him get back to what he knows. What he's always known, really. Snowy and Poots don't expect much of him, neither of them playing their top game either. The season's obviously taking its toll, he can see it in the bags under their eyes, the stifled yawns. Jack's glad for it; he doesn't think he could deal with any more expectations than what he's putting on himself already.

They eventually call it quits, Snowy and Poots needing to rest before the next match. Jack skates aimlessly around the ring once they're gone until Eric shows up wearing his regular clothes, but a pair of skates strapped onto his feet.

Jack's surprised to see him there, which must show on his face, since Eric skates onto the ice and heads over to him. He's hypnotized by how fluidly Eric moves on the ice; Jack knew he was on the hockey team back at Samwell, but he hadn't thought any more about it, hadn't considered his skill, given his size.

That was perhaps not a fair assessment.

"Coach Korolick texted me," Eric offers as a way of an explanation. Before turning, skating backward so as to face with Jack, holding eye contact. "Says he reckons you're pushing too hard."

"My legs still work," Jack offers, giving him a teasing smile.

There's a moment of silence, then Eric sighs and looks at him, before smiling right back. "Right, well, how about this: we race, first round the rink, no checking. If I win we go home; if you win, I'll let you skate till your heart's content."

Jack frowns at him, taking in his slight, skinny form, "I feel like I'm being scammed."

"I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about," Eric says. "I was only a minor college hockey player, after all, Mr. Big Leagues; only been playing hockey for seven years."

Jack is being played, he knows it, but he skates over to the edge of the rink anyway, raising an eyebrow at Eric. "You want to take the inside?"

"Sure," Eric says, smiling in earnest as he lines up next to him. "On three. One. Two. Three!"

They both take off, sprinting across the ice as quickly as they can. Jack tries to push himself faster but Eric's overtaking him with relative ease, even in his jeans. It's not long before he's gotten a clear lead and Jack is left skating behind him across the finish line.

Eric twists on the ice, turning to face Jack, his cheeks red with the exertion but he's beaming, and Jack can't even be mad about the bet. "Did I forget to tell you I was a figure skater for years? Fastest guy on the team. And you, Mr. Zimmermann, are definitely out of practice."

"Fastest guy on the ice," Jack says in awe. "Fastest I've seen."

Which, yeah, he should've expected it. Eric doesn't have the same bulk as most hockey players, nothing holding him back from skating circles around Jack. "C'mon then, time to go home,” Eric says. “Your parents want to go out for dinner tonight, they got a flight first thing tomorrow."

"Out?" Jack asks, hesitantly.

"Nowhere fancy," Eric assures him, grabbing him by the hand in what was probably a comforting gesture, but instead feels strange. Jack fixes on the way Eric's hand fits in his own, slender fingers wrapping around his palm. Eric drops Jack's hand quickly, noticing how still he grew. "Oh, sorry, habit."

"No," Jack says, pulling a hand through his hair. "Sorry, it's not you, I mean, it's not your fault. I don't know..."

Jack closes his mouth, forcing himself to stop at the falling look on Eric's face. He'd been so happy and Jack had gone and ruined it, as usual.

He clears his throat, "Did you drive?"

"Yeah, uh, car's out back. I'll go grab a coffee while you get changed," Eric heads off quickly down the tunnel.

Jack watches him go, stomach twisting as Eric disappears out of view. There's a small part of him that wants to follow, to call him back and make it _right_ , but he doesn't know what he would say. He doesn't know what he should say.

It feels like he's suffocating and drowning all at once. Jack doesn't think he's felt quite this small in his own skin since the overdose. Although, in saying that, Jack wouldn't really know what he's felt like since the overdose.

That was the problem.

 

-

 

They travel home in a stilted silence, Eric tuning the radio onto some country station that Jack figures must be for his benefit if the grimace on his face is anything to go by.

"So, uh, where are we going to dinner?" Jack asks as Eric pulls into their parking space.

"Italian place nearby," Eric says, swinging his legs out of the car and hopping down. "Small place and they know us, so, y'know, we get some privacy. Your mom and dad are heading out pretty early tomorrow so they said they probably won't see us."

Jack swallows. Privacy. He supposes that would be important to them, in their relationship. He gets out of the car, slinging his gym bag over one shoulder and following Eric up the stairwell towards the apartment.

There's a buzzing chatter that stops abruptly once Jack shuts the front door. He follows Eric around the corner, dropping his bag to deal with later. His parents are sitting on the sofas, the TV paused in the background. His papa gives him a smile.

"Hey, how was the ice?"

"Cold," Jack tries, his dad laughs but it's forced, concern still evident.

Silence falls between them. Jack doesn't know where to look, but he purposefully avoids looking at his parents, at the expectations that he can see on their faces. Jack clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm gonna go take a shower."

Eric frowns at him, "Didn't you shower at the rink?"

"I did, I just mean-" Jack pauses. He doesn't know what to say, he doesn't need a shower, but he needs something to do, an excuse to escape. "I want another one, alright?"

Eric holds up his hands, "Alright, gosh, calm down, I was just asking."

Jack can feel the weight of everyone's stares on him, pinning him in place, so he turns and storms along the hallway towards the master bedroom, slamming the door closed behind him like the angry teenager he still feels like.

Jack slumps back against the door, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing, trying to calm his pulse which he can hear hammering in his throat.

He eventually tugs off his shirt, tossing it towards the laundry basket in the corner of the room, steps out of his sweats and throws them in the same direction as heads into the bathroom.

The master bathroom is huge, possibly as big as his kitchen if just counting floor space.

He sheds his boxers and grabs a flimsy shower cap from the countertop. Jack still can’t get his scalp wet with the stitches.

He flicked on the shower, stepping under the spray and twisting up the heat until it was almost too much, the water scalding his skin.

The shower itself is a huge, extravagant contraption with multiple jets on all the walls but Jack just leaves one on as he sinks down to sit on the floor. Everything is too much for him, his parents, his team, his _Eric._ God if he could just get his stupid memory back.

Abstractly Jack knows that he has a privileged life. People would kill to be in his position with the NHL career and the loving family and partner, but knowing that people have it worse doesn't make him feel any better.

He should just let himself live this life and stop fixating on getting his memories back,stop taking it out on Eric, on his family, but he _can't_. He feels like a jigsaw puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit. It looks almost right but there's something off, a rough edge, a weird curve.

Jack hasn't _earned_ this life, not that he can remember, and overwhelmingly it just doesn't feel like _his._

Goosebumps prickle on his skin when he eventually shuts off the water. He grabs a towel and dries off gently before going in search of new sweatpants. It takes him a couple tries to find the right drawer.

When he makes it to the living room his parents and Eric are gathered on the couches. It suddenly strikes him that they were meant to be going to dinner, "Shit, sorry, I'll go get changed, and we can go, uh, I forgot-"

"Jack," his mom says her voice is soft and her face is eerily reminiscent of the first time he woke up in a hospital bed, lined with the same intense worry. "Jack, it's okay, come sit."

She's a sobering reminder that he should have his shit together. That he _did_ have his shit together, once upon a time.

"I've canceled dinner," Eric says.

"No, uh, sorry I shouldn't-" Jack stops. "I can do it."

"Son, it's fine, we'll order pizza," His dad said, giving him a smile. "Come. Sit. Tell me about this race you lost then..."

 

-

 

They order Domino’s, much to Eric's chagrin. Domino’s hasn't changed as far as Jack can remember. He doesn’t know how to speak to his parents, or Eric, what to talk about, but they don’t really seem to know how to deal with him either, so nobody says anything. They sit around the TV with pizza boxes across the coffee table. Eventually, his mom breaks the silence.

"We can stay, honey, if you need us," she offers. "Or you can come home if you really want, I mean, the doctor didn't seem thrilled about the idea, but-"

Jack shakes his head vehemently. "I'm fine, Mom, I’ll keep busy."

It's an obvious lie. No one calls him on it.

Jack sits back on the couch, slice of pizza in hand when he spots his name flash on the screen. "Turn it up."

"Jack," Eric starts, his voice hesitant. "You know what these news reports are always like.

"Eric, _please."_

Eric does as Jack asks and turns up the volume. the broadcasters’ voices fill the room.

 _"Photos of Zimmermann have been published online,_ yet again _. The paps sure do love this kid, don't they, Chris?"_ Says the first anchor

 _"They sure do, Zimmermann does_ not _seem to know how to duck them anymore, not like before his accident. Pictures of him in the press used to be like gold dust, he is a man that loves his privacy."_

_"Well, right now the paps seem to be having no problem. We've got exclusive photographs taken of him earlier today, outside the Falconers home rink."_

Jack clenches his jaw as the photos of him getting out of his car at the rink, bag slung over one shoulder. There's a couple more that zoom in on him, on his head, then one of him hugging Georgia.

_"Now, people are commenting that this is not the first time Zimmermann has been seen being driven around since his injury."_

_"Yes, Lewis, you're right. He's not been seen doing anything like driving, So, I'll just bring this back up, look at the number of stitches this boy has on his head. This is the first time we've actually gotten a good look at this wound since he was wearing a hat after the last set of photos came out, but that head was split right open. I mean, we all saw it, the blood sprayed over the ice. I think that Zimmermann took a much more serious knock than the GM's are letting on."_

_"Agreed, Chris. If it was just a slight concussion then no way would he be out for the rest of the cup. the Falcs wouldn't give up their best player like that-"_

Jack groans, falling backward onto the couch cushions, hands covering his eyes, "God they're such _vultures_."

"Ignore them, son," his dad says, patting him on the shoulder. "They don't have a fucking clue what's going on."

"They're making _money_ off this, off of my life," Jack says. "Off of selling my privacy to the highest bidder."

"Don't worry about it too much," his mom says, reaching over his papa to pat his knee. "That photo of your stitches was so blurry they can't tell anything, the only reason they're saying that it's a picture of your stitches is 'cause they know you've got them."

"Eric," Jack says after a minute, holding out his cell to him. "Take a photo of me."

"Now?"

"Now."

"I mean, you don't- you're maybe not on one of your best days," Eric says, but he takes the phone anyway. "How do you want this?"

Jack tilts his head down slightly, lifting a hand to push aside some of his hair from the scar, and grinning at the camera. He heard it click a few times, before he straightened himself up.

"I mean, it's alright," Eric frowns at the picture. "Not great lighting, but..."

"This should stop them clamoring for a photo of my scalp," Jack says, reaching over to pick the phone out of Eric's hand. Eric's already put him in the Instragram app, so past that it's fairly intuitive. He puts a filter over it that makes his skin look a little less sallow and pale, the bags under his eyes a little less dark.

 

 **Zimmboni** _Healing up slowly but surely. Will be fixed up by next season with a wicked scar to boot, but for the mean time I'll be in a lot of hats._

 

Jack hits post before he can change his mind and puts the phone face down on the table. "Let's watch something else, eh?"

"Good idea," his dad says with a grin, reaching for the remote and clicking on the buttons till the word _NETFLIX_ appears on the screen in red letters. "Any requests?"

"Mad Max," Eric says immediately. "Jack's gonna love it, I swear."

The way he says it so confident, it's not even up for debate. Eric knows Jack and he knows Jack will love the movie; it makes Jack feel like he's about to vomit. Eric probably knows this because he can remember watching Mad Max with him, he knows how Jack's going to react before he even does.

Jack sinks back into the sofa without a word as his dad puts on the movie, and he tries to not let himself get too wound up, obsessing over how much he's supposed to love this movie.

 

-

 

Jack does love the movie and admits it, begrudgingly. By the time they're done it's already past eleven and his eyes are drooping.

"I'm gonna go to bed, I think," Jack says, reaching over to the table to pocket his cell. He gets to his feet. His parents mirror the movement, his papa pulling him into a hug first.

"You call us, okay?"

He’s released by his papa only for his mom to pull him into an even tighter hug. Jack rests his chin on her shoulder.

"I promise," He says, squeezing her tight before letting go. "I'll see you guys soon, ok? We'll Skype."

"Love you," his papa says.

"Love you too," The words are stilted, awkward as he forces them out, but he manages.

Eric is hanging back awkwardly. Jack gives him a small smile before stepping out of the pit of the living room, padding along to his bedroom.

Jack's barely gotten into his pajamas and brushed his teeth when his phone starts to ring. He glances at the screen. it's Parse, again.

He doesn't know why but Jack picks up.

"Zimms!" Parse says exuberantly. "Not like you to pick up this late."

"Yeah, well, apparently I'm not acting a lot like me right now," Jack sighs, falling onto his bed. "What is it, Parse?"

He's tired. Too tired, and while Parse's voice may be a familiar line down the phone, it's not quite the anchor it was the day before.

Parse exhales loudly down the line, "I saw you fall, Jack, and like, I was worried. Is that not allowed?"

"You were worried? We spoke yesterday."

"I saw the replay tonight. You hit that ice fucking _hard_ ," Parse says quickly. "Excuse me for caring, jackass."

"I don't need you to care, Kent," Jack snaps. "I've never needed that." Silence rings out between them.

"Oh fuck you, Jack," Parse says angrily. "Below the belt."

Jack stares at the ceiling, screwing his eyes closed. He counts to ten in his head. "I'm fine, Kent, I don't need you to save me."

He's not talking about his head injury. he's not even really talking to _this_ Kent Parson, the one who is twenty-six and captain of his NHL team.

"You're being strange," Kent says finally. "Go talk to Bitty or whatever, get out this fucking teenage angsty rut, but I'm not here for that."

Jack's heart rate races. Kent knows about Eric. Jack's silent.

"Hockey is not the be-all and end-all, Jack, christ. I thought you knew that, now," Kent says.

It goes quiet. That's the irritating thing about phone calls: how the silence drags, how It _chokes_. Jack can't stop his hands from shaking again, heart thumping out of control. He's not sure quite how long it takes him to get himself back together, how much time he spent sitting breathing erratically down the phone line. He eventually resurfaces out of his head to find Parse is still on the phone.

"You back with me, Zimms?"

"Yeah," Jack says. "I'm back."

It's strange, Parse never could deal with his panic attacks before, never knew what to do.

"Visit your shrink, Jack. I think you need to talk this out," Parse says. It's not an attack, or an emotional thing, but it is an awful reminder that he needs help. He can't do this, he can't stop the awful rattle of his brain.

There's nothing more over the line, but the slow, quiet sound of Parse's breathing. Jack takes a deep breath and decides to break the silence, so to speak.

"Call me, next time you're in town."

"Shouldn't be long, It'll either be you guys or the Bruins going to the final, so I'll be in the area."

"That confident that you'll be finals as well, eh?"

"You better believe it, Zimms," Parse says. Jack can hear the familiar cocky grin down the line. He can picture Parse in his head, but then, he pictures _his_ Parse. Seventeen-year-old Parse, from before the incident. and everything that came with it.

The phone goes dead. Jack drops it down on the bedside table, trying to calm his mind long enough to fall asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Jack wakes up slowly the next morning to the sounds of the traffic outside his window and sunlight streaming through the gaps in the blinds.

He shifts slightly in bed, hips lifting up. He can feel the heat pooling in his gut, his cock pushing out of the flap of his boxers. It's the hardest he's been since the accident. He reaches a hand down, squeezing himself through his boxers, biting back the moan. God, he's sensitive.

He has two options, really, try to will it into submission possibly with the aid of a cold shower, or else, well, handle it the old fashioned way.

Jack glances to the side table to the clock. It's 7:22. he's in no hurry, he's got a doctor's appointment at 9:30, but that's plenty of time. He shoves his boxers down and gets a hand around his cock properly, eyes falling shut at the building pressure. His skin feels on fire, so he pushes the blankets off of him, letting the cool morning air hit his skin. His heart is racing, but he forces himself to slow down, take a breath, and lean over to the side table.

There's gonna be lube somewhere; he's in a gay relationship after all.

Jack pulls open the top drawer, and sure enough, there's lube and wet wipes waiting for them. He grabs the lube, and catches sight of something in in the bottom of the drawer.

It's photographs. Polaroids by the look of them, hundreds of them. Jack stills, dropping the bottle of lube onto the bed before he reaches in and grabs the pictures.

They're dirty. Filthy even, picture after picture of skin, some of him, some of Eric, some of both of them, of where their bodies meet. One particular one that Jack stops on is taken from between Eric's legs, panning up his body to equally capture his cock hard against his stomach, the glisten of precum on the tip, and his hands tied to the headboard above him.

The headboard of the bed that Jack's currently in.

He jerks himself off with his right hand while in his left he clutches the photograph. Jack comes quickly, spurting up his stomach, photograph falling out from between his fingers and onto the bed next to him.

Once his heart rate calms down, Jack pulls himself out of bed and heads through to the bathroom. He wouldn't be able to go back to sleep again anyway, not with those pictures running through his head.

 

-

 

Jack pads down the hall towards the kitchen, noticing along the way that his parents' room is empty, the sheets stripped from the bed and their bags gone.

It makes it all a bit too real. This is his life. This is his house.

Eric is at the dinner table, legs tucked up on the seat and a cup of coffee clenched between his hands. There's a tablet propped up on the table in front of him, an unidentifiable voice coming out of it. Jack clears his throat.

Eric startles, blinking up at him with his wide eyes. He glances back to the screen, "Sorry, Mother, two secs, Jack's just woken up."

"Sorry, I, uh I didn't mean to startle you-"

"It's fine," Eric waves his free hand, giving him a smile. "There's coffee in the pot if you want. Shitty and Lardo reckon they'll be here around noon, so we could pick them up on the way back from your doctor's appointment."

Jack nods, then diverts into the kitchen. He can still see Eric with the open plan kitchen, but tries to avoid paying him much attention, not wanting to get in the way of his privacy.

He pours himself some coffee, then grabs some eggs out of the fridge. Jack goes to crack them into a mug, before freezing at Eric's loud laugh echoing through the house.

He pauses, looking to Eric and giving him a small smile. He's got to try. For himself, even if it's the himself he can't remember.

"You want some eggs?"

Eric looks surprised but his expression quickly smooths into a smile, "Yeah, uh, that'd be nice, thanks hun."

Hun.

Jack feels a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he heads back to the kitchen and pulls out another couple of eggs. Scrambled eggs were always something he can make with a relative competence, always had been able to, an after practice snack usually when he was younger.

He hears Eric say bye to his Mom, and the jingle of the app closing, then Eric is in the doorway to the kitchen watching him through sleepy eyes.

"You sleep well?"

Eric shrugs but then changes his mind and shakes his head. "Alright, but I woke up at five when your parents were leaving and couldn't get back to sleep."

The apartment is so open, there was no way his parent's could've left without waking up Eric. Guilt settles itself in Jack's gut; it's his fault that Eric is sleeping on the couch in the first place. It must be written across his face since Eric is quickly reaching out one hand, resting it on his arm, concern written all over his face.

"Hey, no, it's _fine_ , I couldn't take the bed and leave you on the sofa, and now that your parents have gone, I'll be in the spare room, so no more problems," Eric said, still smiling. It's forced.

Jack continues to push his eggs around the pan, "Could you make some toast, please?"

"Sure, I can do that."

One step forward.

Two steps back.

 

-

 

The journey to the hospital passes in silence. Jack should really learn to drive again. Bitty has things he should be doing; he's graduating _tomorrow._ He has to coordinate with his Mom about her and Coach's flights.

"It's fine," Eric says, waving off his concerns as they pull up to the hospital. "I've got my cell, so I'll go sit in the cafe and get some work done while you're getting your check-up."

They pull up to the barrier, pausing as Eric leans out the window to grab a ticket before the gate lifts and they drive forward. Jack's got a baseball cap on over his head, and a sweater zipped up to his neck, trying to avoid being recognized.

As well as getting his stitches out, Dr. José wanted another check up on him, make sure he was healing up okay.

While Jack walks up to to her office, his head won't settle. He can't stop going over if he turned off the stove. He knows he did; he can remember it. Then again, part of him doesn't trust his own memories any more, doesn't know what's real and what he's made up in his desperation to remember.

Dr. José is in his office by the time Jack arrives, door cracked open, he knocks anyway. Dr. José calls him in with a wide smile. "Jack, it's nice to see you, come on in, sit down, let's get started..."

 

-

 

Dr. José doesn't have much useful advice for him. there's still nothing they can do, no magic cure to fix this. He happy with Jack’s progress, happy that he doesn't seem to be experiencing any memory loss, any deterioration. He stresses that Jack suffered a traumatic injury and the fact that he's suffered only minor set backs, no aphasia, no loss of mobility, only really his memory has been affected and that in itself is a miracle.

"So," Jack says. "You're saying I'm healthy. Other than the head thing, which might not get fixed."

"Yes, it's really quite miraculous," Dr. José starts. "We'll get a few scans before you go, but otherwise."

"So, can I go back to playing sooner then?" Jack tries.

José laughs at that, which Jack thinks quite rude. "I'm certainly not going to sign off on it, Jack, your a medical marvel."

He sends him up to get his stitches out his head, get his brain scans, then he's sent home with a strong recommendation to seek out his previous therapist to work through some of his new issues. Or old issues, Jack thinks. Old issues made new again.

He assures Dr. José he will call, takes the card, and throws it in the trash once he's out of eyesight.

Eric's sitting in the Starbucks where Jack left him, an empty coffee cup on the table and a fresh one in hand, with his phone laid out on the table as he flicked at the screen.

"Hey," Jack says. Eric startles.

"Oh, hey," he glances back down at his cell, pulling up the lock screen. "I thought you wouldn’t be back for another fifteen minutes."

"Dr. José was done with me," Jack shrugs, before pulling off his hat and bending over, "And look: no stitches!"

Eric grins at him, getting up to inspect his head, "That's gonna be one hell of a scar, though."

"Eh," Jack shrugs, "My hair'll cover it."

Eric grabs his coffee, "C'mon then, we better go get Shitty.”

 

-

 

Jack waits in the car incase an traffic cop appears while Eric ducks into the station to grab Shitty and Lardo. They're parked in a no-parking zone, so Jack's in the driver seat so that if anyone comes by he can claim to be about to move.

He's got his eyes fixed on the door of the station when he spots them, the golden shine of Eric's hair easily visible through the crowd. He can see Lardo and Shitty, and god, Jack can just about recognise them. He doesn't know if it's from the photographs or the flashes of memory that he's been having.

Shitty and Lardo spot him in the car and he watches as Shitty's face lights up. He lifts a hand in greeting, but Shitty is making a beeline for the car. Jack pulls open the door, hopping out and heading up onto the pavement. He barely has time to stabilise himself before Shitty lands on him, arms flung around his shoulders. He lifts an arm and gently pats Shitty's shoulder.

" _B_ _ro_ , it's so fucking good to see you," Shitty says, pulling away and clapping him on the back. His face is split open, beaming, and it's overwhelming. Jack doesn't know how to be this guy's friend. he can barely remember anything about him.

Other than the fact he's circumcised, because for some reason Jack has a pretty clear image of this stranger's junk.

"I mean, see you, see you, like, not on the news. Man, they've been running a lot of clips on you lately," Shitty says, still grinning at him. "Fuck, sorry I can't stop looking at you."

Lardo clears her throat, "C'mon guys, we better get in the car before Bits gets a ticket for this sketchy parking job."

"Well, _someone_ is supposed to be sitting in the car for me," Eric said, his tone light as he stepped around the car to hop back into the driver’s seat. Jack offers the passenger seat to Lardo, which means that he and Shitty are in the back as Eric pulls off from the station.

"God, can we hit a Dunks or something?" Lardo says, stifling a yawn. "Shitty was up studying at ass o'clock this morning and when he wakes up I wake up."

"No way I’m trying to park in the centre of town," Eric says, leaning back and taking one hand off the steering wheel as traffic slows to a crawl. "It’s hellish trying to get a space. We'll get a pot on when we get back to the apartment."

"That's fair," Lardo says, leaning her head against the window. "I might just take a nap here then."

Shitty rolls his eyes, "She's got a wicked caffeine addition," he mock-whispered to Jack.

"Do not," Lardo snaps. "Just because I don't have some 'all natural, caffeine free, organic' coffee bullshit, doesn't mean that I'm an addict."

"You can't have natural caffeine free coffee," Eric adds from the front seat. "Technically you can't have caffeine _free_ coffee. Doesn't exist. Even decaf has caffeine in it."

"Whatever," Shitty says, "After the thesis-induced coffee overdose of 2014 I'm _not_ risking that again."

"You're just weak."

They fall into a fairly companionable silence after that, Shitty intently staring out the window while Lardo dozes in the front seat.

"We're here," Eric says before long, as they pull up into the car park under his apartment block. "Let's get the coffee on then."

Shitty and Eric chatter on the way up about the new 'frogs' who are moving into the frat house. It's a lot of unfamiliar names, so Jack mostly tunes it out, zoning slightly in the elevator.

They head through to the kitchen, Jack sinking into the background. It's hard to keep up; Shitty, Lardo, and Eric have obviously been good friends for years. he can see it in the way they move around each other, the way they speak.

He feels like he's intruding.

Bitty starts up the coffee maker before putting on a kettle for Shitty's decaf.

"Yeah, so," Eric says, twisting back around and hopping up onto the island counter. The coffee machine gurgles and sputters coffee into the pot as Lardo stares intently at it. "Nursey's moved out of your old room; he and Dex are sharing the attic to free up room for Whisky and Tango to both live in the Haus, since one of them will probably get the C next year, but no one's sure who. after that it'll be some of the newbies. Gonna be a lot of space with all the frogs graduating at once."

Jack frowns, "I thought frogs were first years?

Shitty laughs, "Bitty never stopped calling the frogs below his year 'frogs', it got pretty confusing. And gross, didn’t you start calling one year just ' _s_ _pawn_?'"

"They'll always be _my_ frogs," Eric says defensively, folding his arms across his chest. "Anyway, are you making coffee or what?"

"Damn, someone's tetchy," Shitty says, grinning as he pulls open the fridge to grab some milk. Jack watches as he moves around the kitchen with more ease than Jack himself can manage. "You want some coffee?"

"Shits," Lardo says, her eyes wide and serious, "I want you to make coffee from this coffee. Like, use this coffee as the water to make more coffee from."

Shitty rolls his eyes, passing Lardo a mug full of black coffee. Lardo takes it gratefully and heads through out of the kitchen and out of sight.

Jack looks over to find Eric staring at him intensely. He looks away quickly, grabs the outstretched mug from Shitty and heads in the same direction of Lardo.

Jack glances at the mug of black coffee made for him. "Uh, thanks," he says.

Shitty's brow furrows, "Something wrong?"

Jack shakes his head, reaching for the milk, "Nothing, I just, uh, take my coffee wrong apparently."

"Oh," Shitty says, his voice small, "sorry, I didn't think-"

Jack waves a hand at him, "It's fine, you're not the only one." He dumps a spoonful of sugar into his coffee, then a splash of milk, stirring till it turns a much more palatable color. Shitty's looking at him with his brow furrowed, but he heads down to the living room anyway. Jack follows behind him.

Bits is spread out on one of the sofa's, head on Lardo's lap, meaning Jack and Shitty have the other sofa. Shitty stretches out his legs

"How's the Haus?" Bits asks after a minute where they're all sipping their coffee in quiet.

Jack frowns, but Shitty just sighs, leaning forward and placing his mug onto the table. "I mean, not _terrible_ , but like, we've been fighting eviction on this place for like six years now. I can't keep finding loopholes."

"Loopholes?" Jack says, frowning.

"The hockey Haus," Shitty starts to explain, "has been under constant threat of eviction since before we lived there. There's some serious structural integrity issues, the porch for example could give way, well, really at any moment, not to mention the plumbing issues. It's really a fucking trash pile, but like, bro, it's _our_ trash pile."

Shitty stops for a moment, pondering something. "Also the club is broke. They could barely afford bus rental for the playoffs."

"How much would it cost to fix the house?" Jack asks. It doesn’t sound worth it, not really, but then he doesn’t know the history of it.

"I mean, if it were a car I'd say scrap it and buy a new one, but like, what's the alternative, y'know?" Shitty shrugs. "They can just get rid of the Haus, it's not big enough anyway, since it only comfortably sleeps five, but it's the whole history of it, y'know? It's the end of an era."

Jack nods, even though he doesn't really know, doesn't remember the 'epic' times that they'd had in the Haus or the people he met there.

Eric sits up shaking his head, "They'll figure out something, I mean, they've got to. They can't not have a Haus, not after I finally got that couch replaced." He gets up from his seat, "I'm gonna check on the pie."

"Have you got any food in here?" Shitty calls through from his position on the sofa as Eric heads to the kitchen.

"Oh yeah, I was gonna ask," Eric says, spinning on his heel. "Would you mind coming with me to get groceries? It'd be helpful with the bags, and, uh, Jack's trying to avoid the paparazzi right now. They're being pretty awful."

Correction: Jack is under orders from the Falconer's PR department to avoid the paps at all cost, at least until the season is over. The press certainly had sniffed that something was up that they weren't getting to hear about, so obviously their only option was gross invasion of privacy to find out.

Jack despises the press.

"Oh, uh, yeah, sure bro," he glances to Lardo, who was sunk down in the sofa, eyes half shut. "You good here?"

Eric heads through to the kitchen, the sound of clanging echoing through the relatively open plan apartment.

Lardo opens her eyes and frowned at Shitty, "Uh, yeah, I'll be fine?"

"Cool, you want anything?"

"Oh, a donut."

"Bits has baked a pie," Shitty points out.

Lardo frowns, "Unrelated statement."

Shitty rolls his eyes, "What about you, dude, need anything from the store?"

"Uh, gum would be nice?"

"Chewing gum?" Shitty frowns. "Dude, you kicked that habit already, you've got like 6 cavities."

Oh.

"Uh, I'm fine then. Sorry."

"I mean, if you want gum I'll pick you up some," Shitty says, back-pedalling rapidly. "I just-"

"It's fine, I probably don't want any more cavities, eh?" Jack tries, giving Shitty a smile. "Thanks."

Shitty gives him a smile back, before grabbing his jacket from the back of the sofa.

Once Shitty and Eric are gone, the house is silent. He doesn't know how to fill it, it feels too much like Lardo's waiting for something, expecting something.

He's about to start babbling when she reaches forward and grabs the remote, flicking on the TV. She scrolls through the channels for a few minutes, before finally stopping on the history channel.

Jack's not seen the documentary before, something about fighter pilots in WWII. It fills the room, and the silence, and Jack quickly finds himself relaxing into the sofa.

They sit in silence together for maybe five minutes before Lardo gets up from her seat and sits down next to Jack, draping her legs across his lap. He squeezes her knee.

"We don't have to watch this, uh, if you don't want to?" Jack starts. "I mean, you can talk to me, I'm still... I'm still me, even if I don't quite feel like it."

"Jack," Lardo says. There’s something about her voice, the intensity and softness of it, that makes Jack immediately relax, tension leaking out of his shoulders. "This is what we do. This is our friendship."

She settles back into the sofa, eyes fixated on the TV screen once more, and yeah, that makes sense, when Jack thinks about it. The whole thing has a feel of familiarity about it that Jack can't shake.

They're about halfway through their documentary when Shitty and Eric return. Jack can hear their voices echoing through the apartment from the minute they open the door, Eric's enthusiastic chatter combined with Shitty's... Shitty-ness ringing out.

When Eric laughs, he sounds happier than Jack has heard all week.

Lardo just reaches for the remote, switching on the subtitles, with an exasperated sigh but a small smile.

"Yo, dudes," Shitty says, poking his head around the corner. "You two missed out. There was this old lady bitch fest at the store."

"...Old lady bitch fest?" Jack asks, possibly against his better judgement.

Shitty's face lights up, "Yeah, so like, it was in the middle of the aisle as well so we couldn't get past. It was over _yams._ No one likes fucking yams. I'm pretty sure they'd been friends for like thirty fucking years or something as well, like, it got dark pretty quickly. I learnt more about those two than I do about my closest friend."

"Hey!" Lardo says indignantly. "You know plenty about me."

"Yeah, but like, I learnt some serious shit about Margaret and Phyllis today Lardo. Deep, dark stuff."

Lardo rolls her eyes, but she's smiling fondly. "You're ridiculous."

Shitty shrugs before turning and glancing back to the kitchen. "Bits, you okay back there? Need a hand?"

There's a pause, some clanging, then Eric is heading out of the kitchen towards them. "Done! There wasn't too much, just with the cans and such it's helpful to have a spare pair of hands."

"No worries bro," Shitty says, stepping down into the living room and heading to the other sofa. "What are you two nerds watching?"

"Documentary on fighter jets," Lardo says. "It's a good one but I've seen it before."

"Oh man, I guess that's one good thing," Shitty says, looking to Jack suddenly. "You get to enjoy all your fave films again for the first time!"

"Yeah, well," Jack says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I would if I could remember what they were."

There's a beat of silence, then Lardo starts laughing, "Dark, Jack, that's dark for you."

Shitty and Eric are laughing as well. Jack finally feels as if he's gotten something right. Managed to mention the elephant in the corner of the room.

"So," Shitty says. "You heard from Ransom at all lately?"

It's directed at Eric, Thank god. Jack can't quite place who Ransom is from the photographs he has running through his head.

"Yeah, I mean, I know med school is tough but like I'm worried about him," Eric says. "I don't think he's coping well away from Holster."

Ransom.

Ransom and Holster.

"They're the D-men, right? Or I mean, they were..." Jack trails off.

Eric is smiling at him, face wide open, eyes sparkling, and god Jack doesn't think he can cope with the amount of hope he can see. "Yeah, that's them. Ransom started med school last fall, it's the first time him and Holster have lived apart since they were freshmen."

"I mean," Lardo starts. "I think he'll cope, it's Ransom, he always does, but like, does he really want to even be a Doctor? He's always so stressed, that's no way to live."

Shitty looks at her out of the corner of his eye, frowning, "I'm gonna ignore that dig."

Lardo snorted, "Yeah, but like, you thrive under pressure. Ransom..."

"Yeah," Eric sighs, "But it's what he wants to do, so maybe it won't be as bad as last year. _And_  he's getting some help now, so that's good."

"Huh," Lardo says. "Well, maybe it'll be different to the senior year crash. I just hope he's happy..."

 

-

 

The afternoon passes slowly. Jack fades in and out of conversations. He tries and so do Shitty and Lardo but there's the shared history between all of them that's the obvious topic of conversation and Jack can't begrudge them wanting to catch up with Eric.

Eric cooks a chicken stir fry with plenty of vegetables for dinner. If Jack’s honest, it’s definitely not his favorite dish. He's not training at the moment, doesn't need to be worrying about his weight for the first time that he can remember since he was twelve, so he doesn't know why he's not taking full advantage of the break to eat all the garbage he can.

"So," Shitty starts. That seems to be the way it goes between them all. Shitty or Eric start the conversations, Jack interrupts when he can think of _anything_ at all to say, and Lardo seems to only speak when she has something of value to add. "I know you don't remember much of this, but I wanna talk to you about it, so you'll have to bare with me while I catch you up."

Jack nods, stabbing his fork into a piece of chicken. "Shoot."

"So, back in senior year I had to cut of my flow, 'cause my shitty grandparents wouldn't attend graduation otherwise, and my shitty dad threw a fucking bitch fit when I told him I didn't even want them there. Well I've just managed to get this to a decent length and I've been _informed_ by my dad that it has to go," Shitty says. "It's my grandmother's ninetieth in a couple weeks, and he's playing the whole 'it might be her last' one so I've not got much of a choice."

It seems to Jack like he does have a choice, "Why don't you just say no? If they really want you there then they'll have you there, hair or not."

"You don't just say _no_ to my dad, brah," Shitty says, gesturing a fork at Jack, like that answers anything. "Besides, it might be that old bat's actual last this birthday, she's been in the hospital three times already this year."

Shitty's weird casualness about his hatred of his grandparents throws Jack. He's missing something - stories, explanations - but Shitty doesn't seem to want to elaborate, so instead he _hmms_ before shoving another fork full of stir fry into his mouth.

Shitty and Eric make chit chat while they finish their food. Jack doesn't know what they're talking about, but that seems to be the theme of the day. Jack's exhausted by it all, he just wants to curl up in his bed, away from all the people in his house, but unfortunately he can't do that, not yet.

He doesn't know what time the last train is, back to Boston, but he hasn't seen anything big enough to be an overnight bag, so he hopes that means that they're heading home and not crashing in his spare room.

"Y'all wanna watch a movie?" Eric asks when they're done, as Jack starts to clear away the plates.

"What you thinking?"

Jack can't hear Eric's reply as he rounds into the kitchen and starts to stack the plates into the dishwasher but he does hear Shitty's enthusiastic 'Fuckin' _yes!'_ ringing out.

Jack misses the discussion, closing to hand wash the pots left from dinner since there was no space left in the machine.

Eric pokes his head into the kitchen, frowning when he finds Jack washing up. "What're you up to?"

Jack shrugs, "No room in the machine, thought I'd finish up in here."

"Oh, alright," Eric says, letting go of the doorframe and straightening up. "We're watching some trashy hallmark film, join us when you're done. I imagine it won't be hard to catch up."

"Will do," Jack says with a grin. "I won't be long."

He's not long, not really. The dishes take another five minutes tops before he heads down to the living room.

"Hey Jack," Eric says. "You've missed this couple used to date but split up for twenty years and are now meeting again at their night school reunion."

"Spoiler alert; they're still in love," Shitty says from the other couch.

Jack freezes.

Shitty's shirtless and sitting in a pair of his boxers.

"Uh, Shitty, you're... naked," Jack says, dropping his gaze to the ground.

"I'm wearing underwear," Shitty says and _god_ that is not what Jack meant.

He doesn't know where to look. he can't look at Shitty, can't focus on anything other than the fact he's sitting on Jack’s couch in his boxers. Jack can feel his pulse raising, his cheeks turning red. He clears his throat. "Shitty, could you just put on some sweats or something if you're gonna be in my house?" Jack asks.

"Jack, buddy," Shitty says, laughing. "You and me have had this argument too many times bro, I'm not putting on pants, they're constricting."

"Shitty, I just- I can't..." it's too much. Too soon. He needs _air_.

"Jack, chill, we used to share a bathroom, like it's, whatever."

Jack snaps. "But it's _not_ , Shitty! It's not! I don't _remember_ that, any of these damn arguments you've had with me, or sharing a bathroom or anything! I don't fucking know you, or Lardo or Eric, and I can't deal with you all acting like I do!"

He almost instantly regrets it as he watches Shitty's face crumple, then harden. "Maybe me and Lardo should hit the road, it's been a long day, and I've gotta be in class early tomorrow."

It's only eight pm.

"No, no I didn't mean-" Jack tries, but Shitty shuts him down, getting to his feet and placing a hand on his shoulder.

"It's fine bro, it's been a long day. We really should go," Shitty glances over his shoulder to Lardo who's standing clutching his jeans and T-shirt. "You've got my number, text me, y'know if you want to."

"Shits..."

Shitty squeezes his shoulder, keeping a careful distance, "Take care, brah."

Jack doesn't move, just watches as Eric escorts Shitty and Jack out of his apartment, Shitty still mostly naked.

He's still standing there, frozen to the spot, when the door closes and Eric turns on him. Jack doesn't think he's ever seen quite so much unrestrained anger on Eric's face. His gut twists.

"Eric, I-"

"Jack, please leave it."

"But-"

He's cut off by a _look_ , a withering glare the likes that Jack hasn't seen before. "Do you really want to get into this?"

"I didn't mean to-"

"No, no you didn't," Eric says, staring at the ceiling and running his hands through his hair. "You don't _mean_ to do any of this, and I know that, and I know this is unfair on you, but goddamn it, Jack, you're not the only person in the world that this affects. For crying out loud I have to give your fucking parents hourly updates on your condition, not to mention your old teammates, y'know the people that care about you and your wellbeing."

"It's not my _fault_ , Eric. What was I meant to do, he was _naked_  on my couch!"

"Our couch."

"What?"

"It's _our_ couch. I picked the thing out after all, paid for half of it. It's ours. This life is _ours_ , this life you can't remember and don't seem to give a damn about that it is _ours,_ not just yours."

Eric's eyes are huge and Jack can see the tears starting. Oh god.

He steps forward, hand reached out, "Eric-"

"Don't, okay, just don't," Eric flinches, recoiling from Jack’s outstretched hand. He blinks up to the ceiling, trying not to cry. "Not after what you said to our friends, about _me._ I can't take much more of this."

" _Eric_ ," Jack pleads, god he feels like he's drowning, he can't do anything to stop it, he's just watching Eric's eyes fill with tears. He doesn't even know why he cares. He feels sick.

Eric turns his back on Jack, "Please, just give me some time."

He heads down the hall towards the spare room. The door slam that follows rattles the walls in the apartment.

Jack doesn't sleep well that night.

He's not felt this overwhelmed with guilt since he was a teenager and all of the shit that had come along with that. He's aware that it's morning and that he should get out of bed, should go to the gym, should do anything really, but he can't bring himself to move. He hears Eric get out of bed, and the gurgle of the pipes when he showers, then the clip of the front door.

Jack doesn't know where he's gone, but it would probably serve him right if Eric didn't come back.

He picks his phone up off his nightstand and swipes it open, typing in the password Eric made him memorise when he was still in his hospital bed.

Pretty much every square on his screen has a little red alert number in the corner, trying to get his attention. Jack opens up the first one; the envelope picture and gets to work sifting through the emails.

It's a lot of spam, companies offering him discounts based on previous purchases, a lot of it's in Eric's name. Jack tries not to read into that too much.

Jack's had some personal emails though, things from people with email addresses that end in _@_ _samwell.edu_ _._ He vows to himself to reply to them later; when he knows what to say.

There's a lot of clicking to get rid of the notifications, sometimes just opening up the app does the trick, sometimes he's got to skim through something. He wants to delete a lot of it, the stuff he doesn't understand or use, but then on some level it still doesn't feel like his phone.

He knows that his team is going to be heading down to Philadelphia for Monday for the next Stanley cup game, so he sends off a text to a group chat labeled 'Falconers' wishing them the best of luck, before Jack finally drags himself out of bed. He should take a shower, he knows this, but it feels like too much. instead, he just pulls on a pair of sweats and heads through the apartment towards his kitchen.

He pours himself a bowl of granola, adds the full fat greek yogurt he finds in the fridge, since he's not going to be playing anytime soon anyway.

There's a note from Eric on the counter saying he'll be back on Sunday after his graduation was done, and to call if he needed him. Jack drops the piece of paper back down on the counter. The coffee in the pot is cold, so he throws it out, starts making a fresh batch. The coffee maker chugs to life slowly. He should really buy a new one, it sounds like it's going to crap out on him at any minute.

When it's finally done he pours himself a steaming mug and then heads towards the living room, dropping on the sofa.

He switches on the television and flicks to the sports channel. With the Stanley Cup about to start, hockey is all anyone is speaking about.

He doesn't recognise the broadcasters but then they all kinda blur into one indecipherable mash, the judging, fake cheerful voices, the shiny hair and the orange skin uniform they all wear.

_"So, John, the Falconers are going up against the Philadelphia Flyers tomorrow, what do you think of their chances?"_

_"Well, I mean, I wish them all the best, but I think it would be kidding ourselves to say they have any_ real _chance without Zimmermann on their first line. It's a shame Phil, I mean, these guys have been working hard all season but they're just not in the same league without their star."_

Jack's fingers are shaking as he calls Guy.

The phone rings, then Guy's slightly surprised voice answers, "Zimmerman? What is it?"

"Are you watching channel four right now?"

There's a beat of silence, "Yes."

"Do me a favour please?"

"What is it?"

"Win for me, I'll be watching from back here," Jack says. He hears Guy chuckle down the line.

"Will do Zimmermann, take care."

"You too."

The line goes dead.

"- _I mean, I can't be the only one wondering what the hell Zimmermann is doing, missing out on this opportunity, right? It's his first year in the running for the cup, and he's sitting out because he hit his head a little hard? We've seen pictures of him, out and about, heading back to the rink in providence, so what's keeping him?"_

_"I mean, back in the day Malarchuk took a skate to the jugular and was back on the ice in ten days! After this whole concussion scandal doctors are so much more cautious-"_

Jack flicks off the channel abruptly, randomly hitting any number and landing on some animal documentary, the comments ringing through his head.

He grabs his cell once more, opening up his contacts and finding his papa's name.

He hovers over the call button for longer than he should, trying to find the courage to call his father, to tell him that he's struggling, but he manages. He hits the call button. The phone rings.

His dad picks up.

"Jack, son, I'm... surprised to hear from you, so soon I mean. Is everything okay?"

" _Oui, Papa,_ " Jack breaths, sinking down into the sofa, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "Yeah, It's just, nice to hear from you."

"How's that boy of yours?" His papa asks, Jack presses his lips together.

"I don't know if he's mine," Jack says, his voice cracking. "I think I'm ruining this."

"Oh," his voice is soft down the line, and god, Jack wants to cry a little bit. "Oh son."

"I don't know how to _act_ around him, he's just... he's so kind, and patient, but I'm not the man he fell in love with. I don't know how to be that, for him."

"Jack, you _are_ that man," His papa says down the line, his voice tinny but firm. "I know you, you now, you before the accident, and you five years ago, and you're all _you_ . That's all Eric wants from you. To be _you_."

"People don't stop _talking_ about me, Papa, and looking at me. I'm photographed everywhere I go! It's like I'm a fucking zoo exhibit."

There's a pause. "Were you watching the sports scene again?"

" _Papa-"_

 _"_ You need to stop watching that trash. They should be fired, that whole 'toughen up' line is _dangerous_ and irresponsible," His dad says quickly, tone firm.

"So you were watching it too then?"

"I can't help myself," His dad admits with a sigh. "I need to see what they're saying about you."

Jack's quiet, steeling himself up to ask. "What would you say if I said I wanted back on the ice? Before the end of the cup."

The idea's been in his head since he got the stitches out really. He feels fine, physically, no reason why he shouldn't be out there, living his dream, _his_ chance at the cup.

His dad sighs heavily down the line. "I'd say you were being stupid, but I'd get it. It's not like I've never went back on the ice against doctor’s orders. Your Mom though, she won't be quite as understanding."

Jack swallows. "Thanks."

"You shouldn't, y'know, go back. Just because I understand doesn't mean I'm condoning your decision. It's a stupid decision."

He smiles. "Thanks dad."

"You have a serious head injury."

"Exactly," Jack says with a brittle laugh. "I'm already fucked up, not much more that can go wrong."

"Jack," his dad says, his voice going soft and soothing once more, "Jack, I-"

"I gotta go," Jack says quickly. "Eric's coming home soon. Give my best to Mom, love you."

He hangs up before his papa can get in another word, and sits there staring at the screen of his phone shaking, partially hoping, partially not hoping that his papa would call back.

He doesn't.

Jack texts Georgia instead, arranging a meeting for the next morning. She didn't follow the team out to Philadelphia thankfully, sending the assistant GM instead.

He gets a notification on his phone shortly after five from Twitter saying that there's a post from @omgcheckplease. He swipes at it, and pulls it up. It's a photo.

Eric's standing, dressed up in his cap and gown, sun beaming down, and, Jack presumes, his parents are standing proudly on either side.

He locks his phone and tosses it across the room to the beanbag, ignoring the ache in his chest. Eric didn't want him there. He shouldn't feel guilty.

 

-

 

 

Jack's out of the house early the next morning. He's figured out how to use the maps app on his cell, so he sets his alarm for six thirty, drags his tired ass out of bed, and puts on his running clothes.

He forces himself to eat a banana, even though it's so early his stomach protests, and drink a glass of water. He writes a note to Eric saying he'll be home in the afternoon, not sure what time Eric's heading back from his graduation, probably after his parents head home. Jack's meeting with Georgia is at nine, so he goes on a long run. he planned out the route beforehand, made sure it was simple to remember so he doesn't need to keep checking his cell phone for a map.

There's music on his phone nowadays; it seems like there's everything he could possibly need _ever_ on his cell. He doesn't know most of the artists but rather than try and listen to something new he switches on a playlist called _'old school rock'_  plugs in his headphones and takes off.

It's a crisp morning, still too early in the year for the sun to have any real heat behind it. Jack prefers it this way, to be honest, always prefers running in the cold to running in the warm.

The streets are empty when he starts his run, apart from the aoccasional other runner. By the time he's winding down his jog, slowing his pace and heading towards the rink, the morning traffic is starting up; people heading towards their work.

He stops running just outside the rink, heading towards the doors. He's got time for a shower before his meeting with Georgia.

"Hey, Jack!"

Jack frowns, turning to see a man waving at him from a food van, parked just next to the rink. He raises a hand in greeting.

"You want a coffee?"

"Uh," Jack pats his pockets, "Thanks, but I've not got cash..."

"I'll put it on your tab," the guy says, waving a hand and turning around to the coffee machine. "Though you should really pay that some time. Nice too see you up and about again. Has everyone else already left town?"

Jack nods, assuming he's asking about the team, "Uh, yeah, they headed down, make sure they'd be well rested before tomorrow, y'know?"

The guy nods, Jack catches sight of a name tag; he's called Paul.

"Oh uh, milk and sugar, please?" Jack adds, as the guy pulls his cup away from the machine.

Paul fixes him with a look, "Yeah, I know."

What.

Paul hands him the cup, "You okay there, Jacky boy?"

"Uh, I just..." he shakes his head. "It's nothing."

Jack turns to leave, but Paul reaches over the counter to grab his shoulder, pulling him back. "Hey, you alright, kid?"

"Yeah, just hit my head, y'know?" Jack dips his head to show off the pink scar. "Everyone else makes me black coffee but you..."

Paul's still. Jack can see the cogs turning in his head. God he's fucked up; he's pretty much told Paul that he can't remember anything. This was meant to be a secret; what's to stop Paul from going to the tabloids and selling the hot scoop. Jack can see the headlines in his mind's eye already.

_Zimmermann can't remember how to play!_

_Zimmermann doesn't know how he takes his own coffee!_

_Zimmermann's career is over!_

"Yeah well," Paul shrugs, letting go of him. "Everyone else thinks you like bitter coffee. I know your dirty little secret Zimmermann; you have a sweet tooth."

Paul's grinning at him. Jack feels the tension ease out of his shoulders. "You should sell that to the tabloids, you'd make a small fortune."

"True," Paul says. "But then you guys definitely wouldn't let me sell out here and then what would I do? God forbid, I might have to move to _Boston_."

Paul shudders and Jack laughs. "Thanks Paul, I'll see you later."

"Uh," Paul blinks at him, straightening up, "Yeah, see you later, Jack."

Jack pushes the lid onto his coffee and heads into the rink.

He waves at the guy behind the desk, but the rink is eerily empty and quiet, since the team is out of town.

He remembers the way to the locker room from the last time he was there. There's a locker with his name on it. He tries the same four digit code from his cellphone; it thankfully works.

Jack had been banking on himself being organised enough to have shower stuff and a spare pair of clothes, otherwise he would've had to sit through the meeting with Georgia in his sweaty running gear.

Thankfully, past Jack was as organised as he had hoped. There was even a fluffy blue towel.

It's quarter to nine by the time he makes it to Georgia's office, still too early, but Georgia has her door left open.

"Hey, Jack, come in."

"Sorry, I'm early," Jack says, hesitantly stepping in past the doorway. Georgia waves a hand.

"Jack, it's you. You're always early; I've come to expect it."

"Oh," Jack says, sitting down across from her. "Sorry."

She laughs at him, loudly. He tries not to flinch; she doesn't mean it cruelly. "Jack, don't be silly. Now come on, what is so important that you _have_ to talk to me today."

"I want to play."

There's a beat of silence, he can see the cogs turning in her head, the smile wiped from her face then; "You've been watching those damn sports centre douchebags, haven't you?"

"It doesn't matter-"

"It _does_ , Jack. It does matter why you're risking hurting yourself, particularly if it's because of-"

"Georgia," Jack interrupts. "I'm a hockey player. I still know how to play, okay? It's not like I'm healing up still or anything, I got my stitches out already. If I get a concussion now, or in a year’s time it's not gonna make any fucking difference, it's gonna be just as bad. The reason I've been written off for the season is so that some doctor somewhere can cover his own ass."

"I don't know..." She hums, frowning.

"Georgia, stop thinking about what's best for me, and start thinking about what's best for the team," Jack pleads.

"What's best for you _is_ what's best for the team, Zimmermann," Georgia snaps at him, her gaze sharp. "What is best for the team is that you get better and win us the next few Stanley cups; if we have to sacrifice this one for the chance to win three more, then that's what we have to do."

Jack swallows, looking down at the desk. He can't meet Georgia's gaze. "I just... I need to do this, okay? I need to play. I need to _win."_

Georgia's quiet. He can feel the heat of her stare on him, before she finally gives a small nod. "Get an okay from the team doctor, then, _if_ the Falconers make it through, you can play for the Cup, provided the coaches agree it's best for the team."

Jack's eyes widen, he honestly had thought Georgia was going to tell him to get our her office, head back to Eric and rest up.

"Thank you," he grins, getting to his feet. He wants to hug her, but from the look on her face, "Thank you so much, I just-"

"Get out of here Zimmermann before I change my mind," Georgia says with a sigh, her head sliding into her hands. "Go see the doc before you go. And the Coach, _christ_."

Jack practically runs out of the door, bounding down the hall towards the club doctor.

He hammers on the door, grin still plastered over his face. The team doc who opens the door does not look in the slightest bit surprised to see him.

"Zimmermann. I'm surprised you stayed away for this long," he said dryly. He's a very small man, maybe a few inches smaller than Eric, but with wiry gray hair and a bushy moustache.

"What can I say, I was listening to doctor’s orders."

The doctor snorts loudly," That'll be the day. So, what brings you here today?"

"Uh," Jack pauses in the doorway, as the doctor sits himself down at his computer, pulling up Jack's records. "I need you to clear me for playing."

"Hmmm..." the doctor says. "Have you had any of your memory return yet?"

"Flashes," Jack admits, stepping into the office, and sitting down in an empty seat. "It's... it's weird. It's like kind of... separate? Doesn't seem like me properly."

T"I'm Dr. Simons by the way, just incase you didn't remember," Simons says, tapping away on the keyboard, not looking at Jack. "And that doesn't seem too surprising. What's the newest memory you've gotten back?"

"Uh, I've got some college things back. People mostly, nothing too specific."

"That's a good sign," Simons says, swivelling in his chair, and looking Jack in the eye. "Absolute honesty now, if I find out you've been lying to me I won't hesitate you have you thrown from the team. How has your head been really?"

"Uh, good? I mean, the wound itself is tender still but healing cleanly and I've not really had any headaches since I left hospital."

"And are you taking on any meds?"

"Meds?"

“Anxiety medication?”

"Oh, uh, no. No I'm not."

Simons fixes him with a hard look. "I'm not your psychiatrist, so I'll let you take that up with her."

The fact that he has a psychiatrist floors him a little bit. He thought he was meant to be _better_.

"Hop up on the table Zimmermann, I'm gonna do your basics before I clear you. If your ass falls dead on the ice I am not having that come back on me."

Jack does as he is told.

 

-

 

After Simons clears him, his next stop is the coaches. They ask him to get his skates on, and he runs drills for the next thirty minutes before they agree to put him back in, provided they make it to the finals, and only if he attends the team training sessions every day they're still in Providence and follow their work out schedual to the letter.

He calls Eric from outside the rink. His legs are shaky after the suicide sprints he had to do, and he doesn't particularly want to try and find his way home when it's this busy out and his face is still front page news.

"Hello?"

"Hey," Jack says, "Are you in Providence yet?"

"Yeah, just back, how come?"

"Can you pick me up? I went to the rink and I pushed too hard."

Eric lets out a long suffering sigh, "Fine, I'll be there." His tone was clipped.

"Thanks," Jack says, sheepishly. The line goes dead.

Eric pulls up after ten minutes. Jack's been sitting on a bench outside the rink, probably asking for more paparazzi to harass him, but he didn't see the telltale flash of cameras so he thinks he got away with it.

"What were you doing?" is the first thing Eric asks when Jack pulls open the car door. "You've been gone for hours."

"I left a note. I just... I went on a run, then I came here, did some suicide sprints."

"God, Jack, you do not understand the concept of time off," Eric mutters angrily to himself. "You're meant to be _resting_."

"I'm fine, Eric, it's my head that's not working right, and let's be honest, me sitting on the couch for eight hours a day isn't going to fix the fact that I can't remember who anyone in my life is."

He's pushing him away, he knows it, but he just can't seem to stop himself, it's like he's this _poison_.

"You don't get to speak to me like that," Eric says, quietly. "I have done _nothing_ but support you, and you-"

"Sorry," Jack interrupts, dragging a hand through his hair. God he feels awful. He needs to stop snapping at Eric every chance that he gets. Eric's right, he doesn't deserve it. "Sorry I really didn't mean to. I'm... I promise, I'm trying, okay?"

Eric clenches his jaw. "Fine. I'm sorry too, I snapped when I shouldn't have."

"It's okay," Jack says softly, "I know this is probably harder on you than it is on me. I don't know what I'm missing, but you... you lost the man you loved."

Eric pauses, he doesn't quite seem to know how to respond, but he finally shakes his head. "I didn't lose you, Jack, you're still there. I still love you. Every you. All of you."

There's not much Jack can say to that. He feels like he should say it back, and a part of him wants to, but he doesn't know why; he doesn't know if if it's out of some sort of debt he feels to Eric or if it's real, just hidden under all the head damage.

So, he says nothing, but doesn't take his eyes off of Eric for the rest of the journey home.

 

-

 

"How was graduation?" Jack asks over dinner. They've ordered Chinese food, which Jack should _not_ be eating since he's planning to get back on the ice now but one more meal won't kill him. They're sat around the livingroom coffee table, eating off their knees, sports scene on in the background.

"Good, I mean, it's a shame Mama and Coach couldn't stay up for long, but, y'know," Eric shrugs, "Work and stuff."

Jack nods, waiting for Eric to continue, trying to listen to him, to express interest.

"Chowder cried, I mean, I was kinda expecting it, but still, that kid," Eric shakes his head. "Yeah, it was a nice day. The whole team had dinner with Coach and Mama, lord, you should've heard Tango asking Coach about Football! That boy _almost_ managed to tire him out!"

"That sounds hard to do," Jack says with a wry smile. "I'm glad you had a good day."

"Yeah, it was nice," Eric says. "Guess I just have to find a _real_ job now. Can't keep sponging off my NHL player boyfriend."

There's a beat of awkwardness between them, Jack's heart hammers in his chest, the work boyfriend playing over in his head. He can see Eric's eyes widen, the all too familiar slip of the tongue. Jack smiles at him, trying to reassure him, "You can keep sponging off me, I don't mind; what would I spend it on anyway? Chicken tenders?"

Eric snorts audibly, lifting a hand to frantically cover his mouth, "Lord, Jack." He's laughing. He's laughing and it's _ok_.

Maybe _they_ will be ok. Jack wants them to be ok a surprising amount.

"So," Eric starts, pushing a piece of broccoli around his plate. "I forgot to say, I'm hosting a dinner Monday. All the other wives and girlfriends of the team always meet up when y'all are out of town. It's my turn to host so if you don't want to be here you'd better figure out where else you're gonna be."

"I mean... I'll come. If you want me there."

Eric pauses.

"I'm sure everyone would love to see you."

"...Thanks."

"No problem. Look, I'm gonna be filming a vlog in the kitchen after dinner, so if you could stay out of there for a little while I'd much appreciate it."

"Sure," Jack says, dropping his head forward and sitting up. "I can do that for you."

"Thanks."

Jack doesn't see much of Eric for the rest of the night. He holes himself up in the kitchen, Jack can hear him speaking to himself through the walls. He eventually moves through to the dining room table with his computer, but he doesn't say a word, and has both headphones in. Jack is still watching Animal Planet, seemingly unable to make himself do anything else.

Eventually Eric takes out his earphones, shuts his computer, and heads down to the sofa pit, sitting next to Jack. They’re quiet, but it's comfortable, easier than it's been so far.

It almost feels like something's beginning.


	5. Chapter 5

Eric spends most of the next day in the kitchen. Dinner is apparently a pot luck, but since they're hosting it's up to Eric to ensure there's enough food.

Jack heads down to the weight room in his apartment building early in the day, letting his legs rest from the run and the sprints he did on the ice. The coaches gave him a copy of his old workout routine to try, to see where he was at fitness wise. He can lift more weight than he expects at every exercise on his charts. A part of him still thinks he's eighteen and all gangly, not recognising the muscle mass he's put on since then.

It's chest and arm day. He pushes through his workout, the old rock playlist blasting through his headphones. He's not quite up to the averages the coaches gave him, with the two weeks off, but he's not far off; still good enough to play.

Flashes of his past are coming less frequently now, and still, frustratingly, nothing of Eric. He knows now that he's not going to get all his memory back, it's not going to be miraculous like it is in the movies, like he’d hoped when he first woke up. But, he holds out some hope that he'll get more of his time at Samwell back, more of his friends, more of Eric.

It’s already past noon by the time he heads back to the apartment. He showers quickly, pulling on a pair of sweats and an old Samwell T-shirt that's maybe a little tight across the shoulders.

He needs to try. If he wants this life he needs to try with Eric. He needs to be better.

He stops in the doorway to the kitchen; Eric's looking a little more than flustered. There's a dusting of flour in his hair and a sheen of sweat on his brow.

"Hey," Jack says, knocking on the doorframe lightly. "You want a spare pair of hands? I can't promise to-"

"Yes! Oh gosh get in here, grab an apron," Eric says, waving a hand to gesture to the apron hanging next to the fridge. "Wash your hands.  _Thoroughly_ , that gym is _festering_."

Jack can't stop the grin as he steps into the kitchen and grabs the white apron off of the hook on the wall, then steps to the sink, grabs a nail brush, and starts scrubbing. When he thinks Eric would be happy enough with his cleanliness he dries his hands off on a towel. "What do you need, boss?"

Eric blinks at him. "Boss?"

"You seem... boss like," Jack says. "So. Put me to work."

"Right, thumb this butter through," Eric says, pushing a red bowl towards him before busying himself with whisking something else.

Jack blinks. "Eh?"

"Oh, gosh I can't believe I've gotta teach you this, _again_ ," Eric says. He rolls his eyes as he puts down the mixing bowl, but it's fond. "The butter's pretty soft already, so just get your hands right in there, and rub it into the mix between your thumbs and your fingers, like this."

Eric shows him, then Jack tries to copy. Eric watches him for a minute before finally clapping him on the shoulder. "Perfect, you do that, I'm gonna get this pork on to cook, nice 'n' slow."

"Eric," Jack says.

"Hmm?"

"I don't think you understand how potlucks work."

"Hey!" Eric says indignantly. "You don't get to chirp me, not in my kitchen."

" _Your_ kitchen?"

"Yes, Mr. Zimmermann, _my_ kitchen. All you do is blend up protein shakes and cook eggs in here. You don't treat it with any love or respect," Eric grins at him, and Jack grins right back.

For the first time in days, the knot in his chest loosens and he breathes a bit easier.

Eric puts on some music, swinging around the kitchen with ease as he gets his food put together. "Who is this?" Jack asks eventually.

"Gosh," Eric shakes his head. "It's Azealia Banks, 212. I just stuck on my pregame playlist. I listen to it whenever I need a bit of luck."

Jack frowns at him, "You need luck today?"

"Not- not with you; with the girls, the wives and that. They're always a bit... tricky. There are a few of them I'm pretty sure would blab about us if it wouldn't impact their husbands."

"That's... crappy."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't going to be for long," Eric says absently. There’s a beat of silence, then he tenses.

"What?"

"It’s nothing to worry about."

"Not for long?" Jack repeats back, his brain ticking over what Eric had said. "Are you saying that we were going to come out? Before..."

Eric sighs, turning around and leaning against the countertop, wiping his hands off on a dishcloth. "Well, that was the plan. Either after the cup, or during if the Falconers lost, but that's obviously been postponed, what with your accident."

"Oh," Jack says softly. It floors him. The realisation that he was going to tell everyone about his life, about who he loved. He was there. He was happy. "I'm... I'm sorry that got taken from you."

"It's not your fault. It was an accident," Eric stares at the ceiling.

Jack takes a deep breath, still thumbing through the butter, "I fought with him, I took that stupid risk, for god knows what reason and now I'm here and it may have been an accident but it's also my fault. I'm sorry that I took that from you."

They're both quiet, for a minute. "Thanks."

"Thank you, for being so patient," Jack says. "I know it's not been easy."

"It's not a hardship, Jack, not for you."

They don't have much more to cook; Eric has most of the things he's planned timed to perfection and a couple of pies already cooling down.

"Right, take a break. Go put your feet up, let’s watch some TV."

 

-

  


It's seven o'clock on the dot when the first of the party guests arrive and the match doesn't start till eight. Jack answers the door, since Eric is doing some finishing touches in the kitchen.

He buzzes up the guests without a word and waits by the door for them to make their way up the stairs

He's dressed smartly; Eric made him change out of his sweatpants and T-shirt into jeans and a button down, and he's rinsed the flour off his face and parted his hair to minimise the still healing wound. He looks a bit like he's got a comb-over, but he supposes that it's better than having everyone gawk at him. Well, more than they're going to anyway.

He opens the door sharply at the soft knock. Eric had quizzed him earlier, with photographs of everyone attending in an effort to keep his amnesia under wraps. The woman standing on the other side of the door was Guy's wife, Samantha. A blonde leggy woman, clutching some sort of oven dish. Eric said she didn't miss a thing, that she was sharp as a tack.

"Sam," Jack says with a practiced smile. "It's great to see you."

She looks a little taken aback to see him, but gives him a smile and hugs him tightly. She's a tall woman, taller than Eric, but he feels like he might just snap her in half if he hugs back too hard.

"Jack, it's good to see you up and about! Guy said you were at training last week."

Jack steps into the apartment, "Yeah, well, y'know me, can't stay off the ice."

Sam rolls her eyes at him, "I know the type. You should be resting."

"That's what I keep telling him!" Eric calls from the kitchen. Sam laughs, stepping past Jack and heading towards Eric. Jack shuts the door behind her.

"What'd you bring?" Jack asks, trying to make conversation. It appears to be the right thing to ask, judging by the grin that Sam gives him, pulling the lid off of her dish.

"I followed one of those vlogs of Bittle's online. It's an apple pie, best one I've ever made!" Sam grins, putting the pie down on the counter and slinging an arm over Eric's shoulder, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Those videos are _ah-maze-ing_ , seriously, you should make a cooking DVD or something."

Eric rolls his eyes at her, "Alright, how much have you had to drink already today?"

Sam swats at him. "Put down the spoon Eric, it looks like you've cooked enough to feed a small army."

Eric does as he's told, switching off the stove. The door goes again.

"I'll get it," Jack says, heading out of the kitchen and down the hall, hitting the buzzer. "Yeah?"

"It's Steph."

Jack lets her up.

He gets stuck by the door for the next few minutes, any time someone comes in there's already someone else buzzing the door. Everyone remarks on how good it is too see him up and about, how well he's looking. Jack smiles and indulges their concerns as best he can.

It's acting and he loses himself in it like when he was eighteen and he had to pretend everything was fine, pretend that he wasn't falling apart inside under the expectations. He's playing the role of the NHL star, the doting boyfriend, and he doesn't need to think too hard about anything. Jack doesn't need to worry, he just needs to focus on making all these strangers think he's fine.

If a few eye him with more scepticism than others, there's nothing that Jack can do about that. Some of the guys on the team must have let slip to their significant others that he's not quite all there anymore.

They sit at the table, Jack between Sam and Eric, everyone digging into the spread. There's so much food; it's almost like everyone is competing to see who can make the fanciest looking dish.

"Guys," Jack says, glancing at the clock, "it's almost time..."

"Oh right," Eric says, "Come on then, let's head to the sofas."

Over the course of the evening Jack notices a visible divide between the partners. They split into two distinct groups, the ones who're interested in hockey, and the ones who aren't or who can't make themselves watch.

Jack doesn't know if he can blame them for not wanting to watch. He's seen the reruns from his own accident, from Eric's face as his blood spilled out on the ice.

So Jack, Eric, and five or so of the women sit around the TV unable to tear their eyes away from the match that's unfolding, while the remaining four hover at the edge of the room, chatting amongst themselves.

The match is brutal. Tater scores in the first period, but Philadelphia follow up with a goal in the second. They finish tied and lose in overtime.

"Shit," Jack says, the room going silent other than the sound of the TV.

"Yeah," Sam laughs weakly. "That was a bit of bad luck there."

"I could've... I could've helped," Jack says numbly. "I could've made the shot or something, I could've-"

"Hey,," Eric says, placing a hand on his arm. "Jack don't, okay? You can't do anything, not from here. Look, it's only the first match, there's chance to pull this around. Easily."

Jack nods, but it doesn't fill him with confidence, and he's sure as hell that it wouldn't fill the team with confidence.

They'll all be dealing with the press now, before heading back overnight on the bus; Jack's got plans to attend training in the morning, still in the hopes that they're gonna make it through to the finals.

The party winds down quite quickly after that. Jack imagines that under different circumstances they would've kept going but the game is downer and Jack's a bit of a downer too. He doesn't know how to interact with all these people at once, probably didn't before the injury as well, since he'd always be playing while they had these nights.

He gives hugs to everyone before they leave, smiling widely at them until the door shuts behind Sam, the last to go, and he's left alone with Eric once more.

"'Hope I didn't ruin your party too much," Jack says, trying for humour but falling flat.

"Of course not, hun," Eric sighs. "You alright? I know that was probably quite a lot for you-"

"I think I'm just gonna head to bed, uh, do you want some help cleaning up though?"

"I'm fine, Jack," Eric says. "Go lie down, Bethany pretty much did everything already with the food and such."

"You sure?"

"Go, sleep, you look exhausted."

He is, but not physically. Mentally, he just can't act anymore, can't act like Eric's boyfriend when he still can't remember what his middle name is.

He heads back to his bedroom, surprised by how much that room feels like home now.

He sheds his clothes, tossing them into a heap in the corner. He needs to do laundry, badly, but that's future Jack's problem.

Jack brushes his teeth, then slides into bed, pulling his cell off the nightstand and catching up with his notifications. He'd left his cellphone on his nightstand earlier, mostly to stop himself being tempted to use it while everyone was over, to hide behind the cell as a shield.

There's a couple of alerts of articles published regarding the falconers, but Jack doesn't read them, doesn't think he can face them. He's in the middle of skimming a news article about bees when a text appears from Parse.

**Today** 9.45pm

_u couldn't have helped better_ _  
_ _luck tomorrow_

_Thanks_

_don't mention it, really. can't let_ _  
_ _it get out that I'm a decent guy_

_Your an asshole_

_*you're_

 

Jack closes the messages and sets his alarms for the next morning. He goes to sleep, listening to a podcast to decompress, trying to still the racing thoughts in his head.

 

-

 

He's out the door before Eric is awake the next morning, running to the rink. He'd drive if he thought it was safe to, but then he still sometimes stands in his kitchen unable to remember where the sugar was kept.

Coach Lewis said he’d be there in the morning as he’d stayed home while the team was away, but he didn't specify what time. Jack gets changed into his kit, grabs his skates and heads to the ice.

He does a couple warm up laps before the coaches come down to the ice.

"Good speed," Coach Lewis says with a nod.

"Yeah, well," Jack shrugs, "Wasn't my legs that got hurt. How’s the team doing? After the loss."

"They’re okay, just focusing on the next match you know how it is. Oh, Georgia is doing a press meet this morning, just so you know."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, she's sick and tired of people saying that the team is lost without you. We deserve our playoff spot, even if you're on bedrest," Lewis rolls his eyes.

Jack bristles slightly, "I'm not on _bedrest_ , I-"

"Calm it, Zimmermann," Lewis says sharply. "If you want out on that ice, snapping at me is not the way to go about it."

Jack pursed his lips together, taking a deep breath. "...Sorry."

"Go, suicide sprints. Ten." Lewis says, waving a hand at the ice. Jack turns on his skates and glides down to one end of the rink, doing as he's told.

Lewis set him a couple more exercises, practice his shots, practice his movement, but they're limited in what they can do without the team.

After finishing up another set of suicide sprints, Jack heads over to the Lewis, who are sitting rink-side in their traditional sweatsuits.

"We've haven’t told them you're hoping to play in the final yet," is the first thing Lewis says when he gets over there. "But we will, when they come back after the next match. I hope you're really ready, Jack."

"I am," Jack says firmly. It doesn't feel like a lie.

 

-

 

Eric's sitting on the couch, papers spread around him, by the time Jack gets home. Jack wordlessly heads through to his bedroom, grabs his laptop, then goes back and settles down on the sofa next to Eric.

“You were gone early," Eric says absently, twisting his pen between his fingers.

"Training," Jack shrugs. “Trying to catch up to where I was, before next season, y’know?"

"Hope you took it easy," Eric says.

"Uh huh," Jack sighs, settling into the cushions, pushing open his computer, heading to the ESPN sports news. "What are you up to?"

"Research for a job application," Eric says, scribbling something down on one of the scraps of paper before resuming typing. "Goodness, I'm gonna be up all night at this rate."

"Can't you just do it tomorrow?" Jack frowns at him over the top of his computer.

Eric waves a hand at him, "How was the rink?"

"Eric," Jack says. "Don't think I didn't notice that segway."

"Well, the deadline's tomorrow noon, so I really want to get this done tonight so I can send it in the morning after re-reading with fresh eyes," Eric replies, not looking up from his screen. "It's not a big deal, goodness, you should've seen the number of papers I left to the last minute at Samwell."

Jack's never really been one for procrastinating, but then he's never been one for relaxing or taking time off. It feels like wasted time when he's not actively working on something.

"What was I like, in college?" Jack asks after the beat of silence. "Did I... like it?"

Eric stops typing at that, looking up at him with a sad smile, "Oh Jack, hun, yeah, you loved it there. Called it some of the happiest years of your life."

"What did I study?"

"History, specifically effects of World War II on athletics," Eric replies. "Why?"

Jack shrugs his shoulders, "I dunno. I might think about an online class or something. Seems like a waste to have lost all that knowledge."

Eric pauses and then pushes his laptop off onto the table and heads over to the bookshelves surrounding the TV, pulling out two large ring binders. "These are all your notes taken from your history classes."

He perches on the arm of sofa, laying the folder across his lap. It's organised by dividers, pages and pages of his own small handwriting. "If you want another degree that's one thing, but, I mean, you already have your degree. That's not going anywhere. If you just want the knowledge, you've got these, plus I know where all your essays and papers are saved in your external hard-drive, plus your thesis."

"My what?" Jack frowns, sliding his computer over so he can take the binder from Eric. Eric rolls his eyes, but gets back up to his feet and disappears from the room, returning quickly holding a small hard-drive. He sits down next to Jack, picking up his laptop and plugging in the hard-drive.

He clicks some buttons, then pulls out the USB and shoves the laptop back onto Jack's lap. "There, you can try and read that, you'll probably need to do a lot of reading around it but you kept everything pretty organised so all your references are saved under their reference number in this folder here-" Eric points.

"That's - that's awesome. Thanks, Eric."

"You're welcome," Eric pushes himself off the couch, pivoting and falling back onto his own. "Anything to put off doing my own work."

"That boring, eh?"

Eric groans, slumping into the cushions, his hands covering his face. "God, you've no idea. Maybe I shouldn’t do this job if applying for it is so boring."

Jack frowns, “You can’t give up now, if you don't want the job that's something to decide after they offer it to you. What if, you get back to work and I'll go get a pot of coffee on? How does that sound?"

Eric drops his hands from his face and smiles at him. " _P_ _lease_ , hon."

Jack puts his computer down on the coffee table and heads back to the kitchen. The pot is cold, so he brews a fresh one, pours a couple of mugs, then heads back to the living room. Eric takes the mug wordlessly from him, slurping a sip before placing it on the side table within arm's reach.

Jack sits back down at his computer, pulling back open the ESPN tab and heading for the hockey section.

The first video is an interview with the Flyers captain, Jack chooses not to watch that. Underneath there is a video with Georgia stood, making some sort of press announcement.

 

**_FALCONERS GM DISCUSSES PRESS CONDUCT SURROUNDING ZIMMERMANN._ **

Jack doesn't particularly want Eric to hear the video, not when he doesn't know what it says, but there's an article detailing what Georgia said, and the ESPN reporter’s opinion on it all.

Jack glances around the couch, spotting a pair of headphones within arms reach. He plugs them in then scrolls back to the video. He hits voice and Georgia's familiar voice starts

" _Now I'm going to keep this brief, obviously with the Stanley cup currently ongoing it's a busy time for everyone, but after the comments regarding the Falconers match last night we felt like some things needed to be set straight, particularly regarding Jack Zimmermann._

_Zimmermann took quite the fall this season and has been resting on his injury, trying to get himself back to playing condition. What has_ not _helped is the constant harassment from paparazzi. What Zimmermann is doing right now is not important or interesting or news in anyway. he is an athlete trying to recuperate after an accident and he would appreciate some privacy._

_Now, regarding comments made with regards to the Falconers loss to the Philadelphia Flyers, particularly those insinuating that the reason we lost was because we did not have Jack on our front line, I would like to remind all you sports reporters out there that the Falconers existed before Jack Zimmermann joined us. He is not the only player on the team, we made it to the playoffs without him before, not to mention though most of the matches of the quarterfinals._

_Quite frankly it's insulting to the Flyers, they had one hell of a match and they should be proud of their performance. Insinuating that they would've lost had we had our 'star player' belittles both their team and ours._

 

Jack hits close on the window, glad Georgia had finally said something and defended the team against the press.

He opens Netflix and clicked on his own name. There under the 'finish watching' tab is a WWII documentary. Jack opened it; it is at the end credits, so he resets it back to the beginning, sliding down on the couch, legs stretched out.

He tunes out a bit, losing himself in the film while Eric works on the opposite couch, typing away at his application.

The documentary is long, complex in places considering his rudimentary knowledge of World War II, but it's _fascinating_ in a way he hadn't expected. He can see now why he got into this, why he enjoyed it before.

The gap between who he was and who he is now doesn't feel quite so insurmountable.

 

-

  


Jack doesn't know what time Eric falls asleep; he's still up when Jack goes to bed just after ten. Jack's alarm goes off at 7.30, and he swings his legs out of bed, and pads through to the kitchen in his boxers.

Eric's not usually up in that time and his apartment is warm so it's not something he thinks twice about usually. That morning, however when Jack steps into the kitchen, Eric is standing there staring at the coffee pot, wrapped up in a blanket. He turns to Jack and blinks sleepily at him, seemingly unfazed by his nudity.

But then, he would be unfazed. He's seen Jack naked a million times; Jack's seen the photographic proof of that hidden in the nightstand underneath the lube.

Jack freezes. "Uh-"

"You want coffee?" Eric asks, his eyes rimmed red. His hair is stuck up in all directions, and he's not wearing a shirt underneath the blanket. "'Cause if so I'm gonna have to put another pot on. This one's mine."

Jack blinks at him again. "I..."

"Too late," Eric says as the coffee stops running. He pulls the coffee pot from the machine and shuffles back down to the living-room. Jack blinks at him, then pours himself a glass of water and grabs a granola bar and follows Eric to the sofa.

The living-room has descended into chaos overnight; there's paper on every available surface, notes, diagrams, drawings, recipes. Eric has his laptop open on the table with a word document on screen, but on the TV is a Youtube tutorial called 'How to Basic'"

"Oh man," Eric says, blinking up at him. "I've got a treat for you; you won't remember this."

He proceeds to put on a video that starts off a tutorial about how to bake a cake and ends with a man destroying his kitchen with eggs. It's one of the more bizarre things that Jack's seen, particularly at 7:30 in the morning, but Eric seems to find it hilarious.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" Jack asks.

"Uh, I got like, two hours?" Eric says, rubbing the back of his head and making his hair stick up even more. "I got sidetracked, but I'm almost done though, _and_ I applied to another job as well. I'll finish before you're back from your run, then sleep till twelve. I've gotta drive down to Samwell in time for the Haus Dinner. It's the last one before everyone starts to leave for summer, except Dex; he's already home, he has to work. I'm gonna stay a couple days as well, Nursey's got a poetry slam that he wants me to come to and Lardo's thinking of visiting."

Jack frowns at him, "Are you gonna be okay to drive? I mean, if you want I could..."

Jack stops abruptly. He can't do anything, he still doesn't _know_ how to drive, not that he can remember at least.

"It's fine," Eric says, not looking away from his computer screen, typing away. "I'll be fine, it's only forty minutes. I've driven it a thousand times."

He hesitates. "If you're sure - I mean, we could call a cab..."

"Jack," Eric says. "I'll be fine. I'm going to bed after I'm done with this. I'll be well rested. Now go, you better get your morning run in, or else you'll be bouncing off the walls all day."

"I'm not a kid, Eric," Jack says defensively. "I won't _bounce off the walls_ -"

"I don't have time to have this argument; go run ba– _Jack_. I'll see you when you get back."

"Fine," Jack huffs, before heading out of the apartment.

With the Cup finals looming over his head, he's got something to aim for now, at least. He can get back to doing what he does best: hockey.

He pushes himself in the run, testing the state of his endurance. It's not quite as good as his records indicate, but he manages his ten mile run in a decent enough time. Decent enough to play.

He's dripping with sweat when he gets back to the apartment. the sun is high in the sky and the air is still and sticky.

He pulls off his shirt when he steps in the door, flinging it towards the washing machine in the kitchen. He glances down at the living room pit; Eric's not sitting there anymore, but his laptop's still open and there are pages and books everywhere. Jack pads along the hall towards his room. Eric's bedroom door is closed, he must be sleeping.

Jack heads to his room to shower away the sweat. He'll wake up Eric later.

 

-

 

Eric leaves shortly after waking up from his nap. He doesn't so much as shower or change out of his sweats. he just jumps into his car with a ridiculous case of bedhead and he's out of there, leaving Jack alone in his apartment.

He hadn't realized quite how much he'd grown used to Eric's constant presence around the apartment, the humming, or the baking but now that he's gone, well Jack's apartment is awful quiet in his absence.

Jack sits on the sofa, switches on the TV loud, and watches the Falconer's match that night with the Flyers, still down in Philadelphia. They win, 4-2.

 

-

 

There’s only two days between their second match in Philadelphia and their first match on home ice, so Jack doesn’t have the chance to train with the team before then, not wanting to interfere with their line ups or rhythms at this point.

The team wins Friday's match, back on home ice. Georgia offers to let Jack come watch it in the flesh, but he declines; he doesn't feel like he can handle the pressure, the attention of everyone. It would distract from the match.

Jack's called in to train with the team for the first time the next morning. The coaches have finally told everyone that they're planning to bring Jack in in the final, if everyone agrees that it's the best course of action. So, Jack trains hard, proving that he's still himself, that he knows how to do this. He may not know who his friends and teammates are but he certainly can play hockey.

That's never been his problem, never been his issue. He's always known that he can play the game; what Jack's not sure of is if he can live up to the hype that exists in everyone else's heads.

He’s there before everyone else is, doing warm up laps of the ice to make sure he’s ready to play when practice starts.

He's on lap number nine when he hears the doors to the rink open then Tater's loud voice echoing around the rink. " _Zimmboni!_ You're back! Again!"

Then he hears the clack of skates on the ice.

"Tater, _no!"_

Jack's head jerks up and he swings out of the way just as Tater goes for a barreling hug, the force of which would've probably sent Jack onto his back.

"Whoa!" Jack holds up his hands, "Slow down big guy."

"Sorry!" Tater says, stumbling to a stop, "Sorry, Jack, I did not think-"

Jack sighs, skating forward slowly to give Tater a hug. "It's fine," He says, pulling away. Tater brightens up immediately.

"So, are you skating with us? Again?" Tater asks, his face lit up.

Thirdy and Marty have joined them on the ice by this point, "Tater, don't-"

"No, guys, I am. I mean, I'm gonna try. Coaches say I might be in for the final. I'm a quick healer, eh?" he taps his head, giving them what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

Thirdy frowns at him, and skates away without a word. Marty looks more concerned though.

"Oh yeah, Lewis was saying. Does that mean you got your memories back?"

Jack sighs, "It means I'm adapting to not having them. I'm still me though, I need out on the ice."

Marty isn't convinced, Jack can see it in his eyes, but he skates away towards where the team is huddled around the coaches. Jack starts up his last suicide sprint while they talk. He's not gonna be accused of cutting short his exercises.

He finishes just before the rest of the team take up their training positions on the ice. There’s a focus in all of them, an intensity that Jack hadn’t seen before, the cup looming in their minds. Jack heads over to the coaches, who are sat by the rink in their traditional sweatsuits.

"I hope you're really ready, Jack," Lewis says

"I am," Jack says firmly.

 

-

  


Eric comes back to Providence on Saturday afternoon not long after Jack gets back from training. He shoves the door open with a bit too much force and drops his bag on the floor by his feet, his shoulders hunched. Jack looks up at him from his magazine and frowns with concern.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Eric says before shaking his head. "Actually, no, I gotta head down to Madison, uh, I'm not sure how long I'll be there, maybe a week. Coach just called, my Grandpa fell, he's broke his femur and he's pushing for surgery even though surgery is a stupid ass decision at his age and we've tried to convince-"

Eric stops, takes a breath, shaking his head "sorry, I shouldn't get worked up. It'll probably be fine, but Mother wants me to be down there."

Jack doesn't remember getting up, but he's standing, one hand on Eric's shoulder, "Oh, _Jesus,_ " he says softly. He doesn't know what to say; he was young when he lost both his grandfathers, and his dad’s mother was dead before he was born. He was too young to really appreciate what he'd lost, to know them, and he's never been particularly good at comforting people. "Can I, uh, do anything? Do you want me to come?"

"No don't be silly," Eric sniffs, "He'll be _fine_ , I know it, but I've gotta be there, y'know?"

"Yeah, no, definitely," Jack nods. "Uh, when are you going?"

"Monday," Eric said. "I looked into getting a flight today or tomorrow but there was nothing today and tomorrow it would've meant a helluva change, so Coach just said to come down Monday. It's not scheduled 'till a week from Tuesday _anyway_ , so..."

Jack frowns, squeezing Eric's arm. Eric leans into the touch, he looks so frail, so worried. Jack pulls him in, wrapping his arms around him, holding him tightly. Eric sinks into his chest, one hand clenched in his shirt, the other wrapped around his back tightly.

"It'll be fine," Jack tries.

Eric sniffs and pulls away, before fixing a bright, watery smile on his face. "It will. Thanks, Jack."

"No problem," Jack says.

"So, you been eatin' alright in my absence?" Eric asks, busying himself in the kitchen, preparing a pot of coffee and investigating the contents of Jack's fridge.

"I have a meal plan, Eric," Jack rolls his eyes, "I know basic cooking skills."

"Yeah, right," Eric says. "The last time I left for more than two days without pre-stocking your freezer you had your nutritionist find you a chef."

"Yeah, well," Jack rubs the back of his neck. "I'm sure I was busy."

"You want some lunch? Well, a late lunch anyway; I was thinking of heading out to get some pasta or something."

"Sure," Jack says. "You pick, since, y'know, I have no idea where's good."

"Well, nothing's changed then," Eric says with a smirk. "C'mon, let's go."

 

-

 

They end up having Italian for lunch. Eric orders pasta while Jack orders a salad which Eric mocks him relentlessly for. He's packed on a few pounds what with all the sitting and resting that he's done lately; the nutritionist would not thank him for eating pizza while he's trying to convince them to let him back in the game.

"I'm just saying," Eric says. "I know you're worried about the team but I think they've turned it around with that last match. Mark my words, they'll win tonight, then next week, then they're gonna go to the finals."

Jack says nothings, just pushes around a salad leaf with his fork. He flinches with surprise when Eric reaches across the table and covers his hand with his own. "Jack, healing is not a weakness."

Jack looks around quickly, pulling his hand back, "Eric, we're in _public_."

Eric sighs, leaning back in his seat, "So? It wouldn't be the worst thing the paps have got on us."

"Eric, please, I can't-"

Eric looks away, setting his jaw and looking up to the ceiling. "I know. It's fine."

"I'm sorry-"

"It's _fine_ , Jack. I'm fine. Drop it."

Jack drops it, ignoring the fact Eric's blinking away tears. They finish their meal in silence.

One step forward, two steps back.

 

-

 

Eric drives them back to their apartment. On the journey home, Jack gets an alert on his cell from a blog he'd started tracking which seemed to report on his every move.

 

**_Jack Zimmermann sighting_ **

_(Submitted by Falconerzbutts)_

_So I was minding my own business eating dinner right, and guess who walks in? Jack Fucking Zimmermann._

_So, like I keep my chill, I don't want him to notice me, 'cause he's not alone. He's with MBB._

_His hair's pretty fucked with the GIANT SCAR, omg, I didn't realize how bad it was till I saw it in person but man, that boy cracked his head open something real._

_(Anyway I'm losing track here)_

_So Zimmboni and MBB sit down, I've got like a pretty decent view of Jack but not of MBB so you'll just have to trust me that that is the back of his head there, and know that I wouldn't lie to you all._

_[Grainy cell photo of Jack and back of MBB’s head in crowded restaurant]_

_So like, I'm lowkey freaking out, and like MBB REACHES ACROSS THE TABLE AND GRABS JACKS HAND._

_MBB AND JACK ARE REAL._

_I AM TELLING YOU._

_REAL._

_(Also Jack ate a whole meal in a public place and generally seemed fine. Man it's weird that he's not back on the ice.)_

 

Jack closes the app. God, he understands that it's good that people like him, it brings interest to the team, attention. PR warned him that he was going to have to learn to deal with this, with people wanting to _know_ about him, but it doesn't make it any easier.

He closes the blinds when he gets into his apartment and settles down on the sofas, turning on the TV. He doesn't really know what to do with himself and the free time he's got. He's not used to having free time.

Eric makes another pot of coffee then brings him down a mug. "There should be reruns of Thursday's match if you wanna watch."

Jack frowns at him, "Thursdays?"

"The Aces," Eric clarifies. "You're not the only team playing right now. It was supposed to be a good one."

"Uh, yeah I mean, we could, if you don't mind-"

"I love watching good hockey. I don't just put up with it for you."

"Oh, of course, sorry."

"It's fine," Eric says easily, settling down on the sofa next to Jack. They're not touching, but there's just _something_ between them, something in the way Eric acts that's so natural and effortless around him.

Sometimes he's fine with it, he can navigate Eric and the confusion of feelings that he brings, but other times it puts Jack's teeth on edge. He's filled with overwhelming panic. he doesn't know how to reciprocate it, how he should act around Eric. It makes it worse that Eric doesn't seem to expect anything of him. In all of this he's been unfailingly patient.

Patience always has an end. If someone is being patient they're still waiting for something. Jack can't help but worry he's never going to be able to give Eric what he's waiting on. Never going to _be_ who Eric's waiting on.

The TV fills the silence between them. Eric doesn't seem to mind when Jack's quiet, when he's not got anything to say to fill up the silence, but Jack still feels like he should be saying something, trying to connect better.

The fact he doesn't know how they work, how they are together is what drives him crazy. He doesn't know how to emulate what they should be, what _he_ should be.

"I know you didn't sign up for this," Jack says eventually, after they've been watching the repeat of the Aces match for twenty minutes in total silence, (the Aces are _dominating_ , obviously. They've got three matches out of three so far, there's no question what team's going to the Stanley cup final from the western conference).

"Huh?"

"This. Me. Like this." Jack says, before clearing his throat. He's got his gaze trained on the television; he can't look at Eric right now. "I mean, I don't even know who you are."

"Jack..."

"I just," Jack sighs, wringing his hands together. "If you want... if you want _out_ then I wouldn't blame you. I'm not who you signed up for."

Eric reaches around, grabbing his shoulder and pulling him to face him. "You look at me right now, okay? This is not a conversation that we're gonna have between you, me, and the television."

Jack forces his chin up, looking Eric in the eyes.

"Sorry if this makes you uncomfortable, but you are _Jack_ , and I fell in love with _Jack_ , and if you don't want me, well," Eric's voice shakes, but he smiles and his eyes are bright and clear. "Well that's your decision and I wouldn't hold it against you, but I'm here. As long as you want me. I'm here. If that's what you want."

His accent is so thick, it rings out in every word. Jack realizes that it's now reached the same level of soothing as his dad's weird Canadian french, or his mom's harsh New York that only happens when she's talking to her mother. Jack can feel the warmth of Eric's palms searing into his shoulders. He wants to look away, to minimise this, because it should be _too much._ This stranger is looking at him with nothing but devotion and Jack could crush him in a word.

But.

But he's not a stranger. He's not. It's not too much.

"I want you," Jack forces out. "I want this. I just don't- I don't know how. I don't know _why."_

Eric squeezes his shoulder. "I think that's alright, we can work this out together. Thanks for talking about this with me though, sweetheart."

"I might not get my memories back." Jack says finally, dropping his gaze. "This might be it, I might-"

Eric slips a hand under his chin, leaning in and bringing his head up. "Jack," he says, his eyes shining. "Jack, I don't _care_. I'm just happy that I got _you_ back, in one piece, mostly."

Jack chuckles, "I gave you quite a scare, eh?"

"Yeah, you sure did, and it's not allowed to happen again, got it?"

"Sure," Jack says, smiling. "I got it."

"I mean, I'm sad that you've lost those memories of us. Those were some good memories, we can make more, and I can tell you about them. If you'd want to, I mean, I know you've struggled a bit with people knowing more about you than you do."

"I'd like that," Jack says, not dropping Eric's gaze. His eyes are so bright, so big, it's hypnotising. "To hear about us, I mean."

So Eric tells him. They mute the television and Eric's told about their life, together, that brought them to this moment.

In the background on the TV, Parse celebrates a hat-trick, but neither of them really notice, too caught up in their shared past.

Jack has training early on Sunday morning. He leaves a note, telling Eric that he's away to run, then heading to the gym down at the rink to use some of their equipment. He hasn’t figured out a way to broach the subject with Eric yet, how to explain to him that he needs to get back to playing, that he can't stay off the ice, not when his team needs him.

Eric's just waking when he gets back, fumbling around their kitchen in a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt, making himself coffee. He mumbles a greeting at Jack, giving him a smile as Jack breezes into the apartment, heading for the shower.

They eat pancakes for brunch, and then marathon some Netflix show Eric says he'll probably like.

Eric is sitting next to him on the sofa which would not usually be an issue, but he's been wearing these tiny red shorts all day and Jack can't stop looking at his legs.

It's been a long time for Jack. He doesn't exactly know how long, but he can feel it building in his gut. It's been a while.

The photos sitting in his nightstand burn in his memory. He's been trying not to look at them. It feels like an invasion of privacy, even though he probably took them; he's still not managed to figure out a way to not think of that part of himself, the part he can't remember, as a different person.

Jack jerks as Eric reaches over, laying a hand on his thigh. He's too keyed up to relax into it, so Eric removes his hand and fixes him with a scrutinising look.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Jack says quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine, absolutely a-okay."

Eric doesn't stop looking at him, his brow creased, "Jack-"

"Seriously Eric, I'm fine-"

"Jack, if there's something that you need to talk about or-"

"Eric-"

"I want to be able to help-"

"Fine!" Jack exclaims. "Fine, if you want to help please, for the love of god, go and change out of those shorts. It's _indecent."_

"Oh," Eric says, surprised. He gets up, stepping past Jack, "Sorry, I didn't think that-"

Jack blushes red, embarrassed by his outburst. He runs a hand through his hair, "No, no, I'm sorry I didn't mean- I mean you can wear what you want, it's your house too and I want you to be comfortable-"

"No I just- I forgot is all," Eric says with a grin. "I'll go change."

"Eric?"

"Yeah?"

"Please stop looking so much like you're enjoying this."

"I can't promise anything."

_Chrisse._

 

-

 

Eric thankfully changes out of the tiny red shorts and into some sweatpants, before sitting more than an arm's distance away from Jack. They watch some history documentary and order in rather than cook. Jack manages to think about something other than Eric's legs for a whole two minutes and counts it as a win.

"When are you leaving tomorrow?" Jack asks over take out.

"Early," Eric sighs, tipping his head back. "Ugh, probably leaving here around eight, eight-thirty?"

Jack laughs, "Early, eh?"

"Shut up, just 'cause we all don't enjoy waking up at an unholy hour to _voluntarily_ go running."

"Hey, I know for a fact that you used to wake up with me at five am to practice, so you can't go pulling that card," Jack grins.

"I'm gonna regret telling you that one, aren't I?"

"Probably," Jack shrugs.

It's Sunday. The fact that Eric heads back to Madison in the morning is looming in the back of Jack's mind. He feels awful for thinking it, considering why he's heading home, but on the plus side he'll have the freedom to train as hard as he needs to, if he really wants to play.

"Ugh," Eric groans, slouching in the seat, waving a hand at the screen where two people are having an intense argument. "This is the _worst_ part, like can we _not_?"

Jack raises an eyebrow at him. "Can. We. Not."

"It's a common phrase-"

"Oh, I know; I follow a tumblr blog, I know slang. I didn't know that you used it."

Eric rolls his eyes, "Good lord, you should not be allowed on the internet, Mr. Zimmermann. You follow a blog?"

"Yeah, well," Jack shrugs. "It's about me. They seem to have an uncanny ability to pry into my personal life, they know _everything_."

Eric laughs, throwing his head backwards, "Oh, Jesus, Jack, you do know there's a million tumblr blogs about you? They all reblog each other - it's not this one person who knows all about you, they confer, discuss with each other."

"Oh."

"Oh honey," Eric laughs, slinging an arm over his shoulder and giving him a squeeze before letting go.

Jack feels himself blush. He can feel where Eric's leg is pressed against his own, thigh to thigh.

Eric leans away and yawns, "Right, I'm gonna go to bed, since I'm up early tomorrow. You should probably hit the hay as well; this movie just gets worse from here on out."

Jack blinks at the TV. He'd forgotten that it was there to be quite honest. "Uh, yeah, that's probably a good idea."

They switch off the screen, Eric gathering up their plates and mugs and heading through to the kitchen with them all while Jack pads along to his bedroom and shucks out of his jeans, lying down wearing his boxers and the t-shirt from the day.

He's not tired though, not mentally though the gym regime he's been put on to try and build up the stamina that he's lost in time for the Stanley cup is certainly wearing out his muscles, his thoughts are racing.

He's thinking about Eric.

He can't stop.

He should tell Eric about the cup; he needs to be honest, but Eric's been worried about him for so long and he's only just starting to unclench after the accident., Jack knows that when he goes back into the rink it's just going bring those feelings flooding back.

He sits on his bed cross legged, his cell in his hand for a long few moments, before he finally gives in and calls his dad.

" _Papa,"_ Jack says when he picks up.

"Jack!" His dad sounds happy. "Son, how are you? Alicia! It's Jack! Do you want to speak to your mom?"

"Uh, _une minute,"_ Jack says. He speaks in french, the walls are thin, he doesn't want Eric overhearing hearing this. " _Papa,_ I'm back on the ice next week; if we're through to the cup, I'll be back on the ice."

"Jack-"

"I don't want a lecture," Jack interrupts. "I've made up my mind, I just... when it was you, when you were hurt, how did you tell mom? I don't know how to tell him. I just... he's so happy. I don't want to wreck that."

When Jack was less than a year old, Bad Bob Zimmermann was in the beginning of the conference matches when there was an accident on the ice and someone's skate got pretty much imbedded in his leg. He was back, playing, in under a week and tore open his stitches, almost bleeding out on the ice.

He wasn't back again for three weeks. It's maybe not the best story to model himself on.

"Jack, It wasn't a matter of _breaking_ it to her. We talked about it together before I made that decision. She didn't like it but she... she knew what she signed up for when she married a hockey player."

Jack's silent.

"Jack-"

"It's just... it's going well, finally. I think we're getting somewhere."

"Oh, that's- that's great! Are you starting to remember..." He trails off.

Jack sighs. " _Non_ , _P_ _apa_ , no memories. Well, not... not _meaningful_ ones, just some random crap. God I can remember my college roommates junk but I can't remember even _meeting_ Eric, who is apparently my soulmate by all accounts, so no, no memories."

"Oh, Jack." His papa pauses. "I mean, if it's any comfort, you only got to meet Eric for the first time, once. Even _I've_ seen Shitty's penis more than I care to count."

There's a beat of silence, then Jack laughs. He laughs _hard_ and his papa joins in. It's cathartic, and freeing; to laugh about the whole thing where they've only tiptoed around it up till now.

"I should go," he says. "I should go... talk..."

"Go, tell him. Take care of yourself - I'll tell your Mom that you're doing okay."

"Oh, uh, I can talk to her-"

"She went to bed when I started speaking french, Jack. Don't worry, she know's you’re busy."

"I'll call tomorrow," Jack promises. " _Bonne nuit, Papa."_

He hangs up the phone and sits staring at the door. It's silent, he can't hear anything coming from Eric's room–he's probably asleep. Jack should leave it till the morning, but then Eric's leaving in the morning.

Jack needs to do it tonight.

He pushes himself out of bed, stepping out of his room and turning to Eric's door. His hand shakes as he brings it up and forces himself to knock.

Baby steps.

He can do this.

"Yeah? Come in."

Jack pushes open the door. The light's off, "Oh, sorry, I-"

"No," Eric says, his voice foggy with sleep. He sits up, Jack can see the slither of moonlight down the side of his face, his hair sticking up in all directions. "C'mon in, hun, what is it?"

"Oh, I..." Jack stops, staring at Eric. He can't figure it out, what's going on with him, but- "I missed you."

Oh.

"Oh."

He did not mean to say that.

"Uh, sorry I didn't, I mean, I don't want to make you uncomfortable-" Jack forces out, babbling as the blood rushes to his head. "God, I'm sorry I'll just-"

"Jack," Eric interrupts. "Jack, do you want to come to bed?"

He swallows.

He should tell Eric.

He should.

"Uh..."

"It's okay, Jack," Eric says, sliding down under his sheets. "If you want to, if you don't, I don't mind, whatever you need."

There's a lump in his throat. His gut is squirming in anticipation.

"Yes, uh, yeah, I mean, if you want-"

"Jack?"

"Yeah, Eric?"

"Get into bed," Eric says with a fond sigh, smiling at Jack.

Jack steps into the room, closing the door over quietly behind him. He steps softly, so softly, afraid if he's too loud, he'll break this bubble that they seem to be in.

He's wearing only his boxers and a t-shirt, which suddenly seems indecent, but then he's seen the broad, naked expanse of Eric's chest. He lingers at the end of the bed, worry growing in his gut.

"Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"What is it?"

"I don't, I mean, this isn't- it can't be-"

Eric turns over, sitting back up again. Jack can barely see his face, can't make out his expression in the moonlight. "Jack, honey, we never have to do anything you don't want to do. I'm not in this unless you're in this, one-hundred percent, so if you want to go back to your own bed, that's fine, but if you want to come join me then, _please_. I've missed you."

The silence hangs heavy between them, almost smothering.

"I've missed you too, Bits."

Eric’s expression softens, and Jack slides into his bed. He lies there, staring at the ceiling for a while before he feels Eric grab his hand.

"Is this okay?"

Jack clears his throat, he can feel the warmth radiating from Eric under the blankets. "Uh, yeah," he squeezes Eric's hand. "Yeah, that's fine."

They lie there, clutching one another's hands, bodies almost touching in the dark, before Eric rolls over onto his side, facing Jack and switching hands so it's more like a handshake between them.

"I can't sleep on my back," Eric offers as an explanation, his eyes bright. They're so  _close_ , Jack can just feel him, the thrumming awareness of his presence. He nods, his eyes falling shut finally.

They go to sleep like that, still touching, but only just.

Jack doesn't tell Eric about his plan. He can't ruin the fragile  _thing_ between them, tangible for the first time since he woke up in the hospital.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, peeps, Parse makes an appearance in this chapter - pop down to the end notes if you need to know what he's up to before digging in

Jack sleeps better that night than he has in weeks, warm and calm. He doesn't wake up until the morning and even then, it's only briefly as Eric pulls himself out of bed and heads to make coffee.

When Jack wakes up for good it's light outside and there's a cup of coffee sitting on the nightstand with a note.

_Headed back to Madison_

_We'll skype tomorrow_

_Eric_

Jack looks at the clock. It's eight thirty. He can't remember the last time he slept this late, well, other than the hospital.

He's got training at ten; it's a late start for the guys since they've been on the road a lot lately. Coach gave them a reprieve since they'll be on the road again the next morning with another game.

They're sitting at two-one but tensions are high anyway.

Jack reaches out a hand to the coffee mug; it's cold. He drinks it anyway. Eric remembered to put in milk and sugar.

He smiles.

 

-

 

Training is brutal. Jack plays well but it doesn't feel like enough. He can't quite connect well enough, make the shots in enough time, he's just not _enough_ , not himself.

He heads to the changing rooms, shoulders hunched and head down, when he feels someone grab onto his shoulder.

"Jack," Marty says, squeezing gently. "You did good. You're doing _good_."

He's speaking Quebecois - it reminds Jack of his dad. He takes a breath, trying to calm himself. "I can't–I can't just be _good_. Not if I want to play, I've gotta be better."

"Jack," Marty says, taking a breath. "No one expects-"

Jack shakes off his arm. "I don't need your pity alright? So, I'm fucked in the head now, can't remember my boyfriend's middle name anymore, or how to drive a car, but I can play, alright? I can play, I've always been able to play. I have to."

He storms off before Marty manages to stop him, changing as quickly as he can to avoid the team. Anger’s churning in his stomach, he feels on edge, like he could break at any minute.

He can't drive still, doesn't want to risk it not when he can't remember how. The doctor says that he'll probably be fine - that it'll be in the muscle memory, but he should take a lesson or two first, just to get back in the swing of it.

So, he runs home. The sun’s beating down hard and he’s still tired, still warm, from training; it makes him sweat. He's so hot that he feels like he's burning from the inside, every breath scorching the inside of his throat, but he can't bring himself to walk, can't stop, because if he stops he has time to think about anything other than just the act of bringing air into and out of his lungs and moving his feet closer to home.

 

-

 

Over the course of the week Jack pushes himself, harder than he's ever pushed before.

When the Falconers are in town and training he trains with them, when they're away he does drills on his own. When he's not on the ice he's in the gym, or on a run, or sleeping.

Eat. Sleep. Train. Repeat.

He skypes Eric, making sure he's doing okay, but Eric's house back in Madison is so busy, filled to the brim with cousins and aunts and uncles and in-laws, that it's hard to really talk. Eric's not told most of his extended family that: _one_ , he's gay and _two_ , he's dating an NHL star. Not that any of them would know who Jack was; Coach's side of the family wasn't big on hockey.

It's okay. Easier that way. He still doesn't know how to tell Eric. He's so stressed with his grandpa and the impending surgery, Jack can't add to that.

The Falconers win Tuesday's match, then they're back in Philadelphia for the Friday match. They lose, 3-1, Jack can see the anguish on the player's faces, the hunch in their shoulders.

That puts them at 3-2 over all and they're back on home ice for the next match. Jack can feel the tension at the next practice everyone is quieter, more focused.

The Aces had won their fourth game earlier in the week; they’re through to the finals, just waiting on the outcome from the Eastern Conference.

The following Monday, Jack watches from his couch while the Falconers win their fourth match of the conference finals 4-2. He's sitting there listening to the commentary on the game when his cell rings

It's his coach.

"Yeah?'

"Hi, Jack, it's Coach. I'm assuming you watched the match?"

"Yeah," Jack says, still not taking his eyes off of the screen. There's streamers on the ice. Jack's glad this happened at home in Providence, where they can celebrate properly. He's happy for them. Really. "No, I did. That's great."

"Tomorrow morning take a rest day, then I wanna see you at training on Sunday at eight thirty, sharp. We're playing a week today in Las Vegas so you better be ready."

"Yeah, uh, yes sir, I will be. I promise."

"Take care of yourself, Zimmermann."

The line goes dead.

He's going to play. He gets to play in the finals. He can still do this.

He's sitting, still staring at the screen, when his phone rings again. It's Tater.

"Hello?"

" _Zimmboni!_ " Tater yells down the line. "Party at my house, you come, yes?"

Jack sighs, "Tater-"

"No! No ' _Tater'_ you come to party, we celebrate! We won!" Tater's voice is jovial, full of laughter.

He doesn’t want to celebrate, not with the growing worry about the impending match, not when there’s so much he needs to do to get ready, so he lies."Tater, Eric is coming over tomorrow, and I'm tired-"

The doorbell rings.

"No excuses! We're here now, we take you to party!" Tater is gleeful.

Jack sighs, glances at the TV screen which is still showing highlights of the game. "Let me get my coat."

 

-

 

Tater's house turns out to be on the outskirts of the city. It's huge, modern build with a sprawling lawn and a porch.

"Wow, Tater this-"

"Is a house for family, no?" He laughs, patting Jack on the shoulder as they walk up towards the door. "We try, we try _hard_."

And with that, he's gone, inside the house. Jack doesn't know how to do this. He doesn't know how to be their friend, how to respond to _that_.

Marty comes up behind him. "If you don't want to be here–"

"No, I'm good," Jack shakes his head. "Congrats, by the way, that last goal was _incredible_."

"Thanks, Jack. It'll be good to have you back on the ice."

They head inside.

While the house looks wholesome from the outside, as soon as the door is opened the pounding base hits them both. It looks like every image of a frat party that Jack has ever seen in films. He can hear Marty groan behind him.

"Christ, I'm too old for this shit," he pats Jack on the shoulder. "I'm gonna find Guy and Thirdy. And a stiff drink."

And Jack is left alone.

Someone he doesn't know grabs him by the shoulder and shoves a shot into his hand, so he drinks it, moving into the living room where there are people dancing and strobe lights and _god_ where did Tater even get all this equipment.

"Zimmermann! Good to see you up and about again, shame you couldn't make the match though-"

"Haha, yeah, have you seen... Tater?" He asks the perfect stranger slinging an arm around his shoulders like they’re friends.

"He's in the kitchen I think, back that way-" he throws a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the door at the other end of the room. Great. "You want this?"

Jack takes the jello shot and downs it quickly before pushing through the crowd.

Tater is, in fact, in the kitchen, along with Guy and Thirdy who are sitting at the kitchen table with beers in front of them while Tater makes out with his wife. She’s sitting up on the counter with her legs wrapped up around him, half against the fridge.

"Oh, sorry, uh, I'll go-"

"Sit, Jack," Thirdy says, gesturing to a spare chair. "You want a beer? I can get Tater and Leanne to stop dry humping if so."

"Uh, no I'm fine," Jack sits down.

"Tater, grab a beer please!" Thirdy yells anyway. "And stop groping your wife, it's gross."

Tater blinks, his hands stilling, pulling his face away from his wife. "Heyyy, sorry, just-" he pauses, blushing. "Look at her, can you blame me?"

Tater's wife rolls her eyes, swatting at him, and pulling away, opening up the fridge and grabbing a couple beers. She ruffles Jack's hair before sitting down next to him, lifting her legs up and laying them on Guy's lap.

She's a small woman, smaller than Jack would've assumed considering Tater's height. It must be a bit awkward at times. Maybe. He thinks of how much shorter Bitty is than him, of the photographic evidence that it can work just fine.

Jack shakes his head, trying to rid himself of those thoughts.

"Zimmboni," Leanne says with a grin. She's got small features, with light hair and dark brown eyes. "Good to see you again, how's the noggin?" She's from the south, deep south.

"Eh," Jack sighs. "Still mushy, but I'm dealing with it. Trying to anyway." He takes a swig of his beer.

"Sorry I couldn't make Eric's meal night, but I headed down to Philadelphia," she says, waggling her eyebrows.

"She was, uh…”He frowns, searching for the word in his head before grinning widely, “Ovulating!" Tater proclaims proudly. Leanne blushes beetroot and the entire room groans.

"Jesus, Tater," Guy says. "I'm gonna play some pool. Marty, you want to play?"

"You're on," Marty says, getting to his feet and heading through the other exit to the kitchen with Guy. Tater leans down to kiss Leanne on the cheek before following them.

"Hey, hey guys, was that not ok? I thought-"

Leanne sighs, taking another swig of beer. Her label is different from his.

"You doing okay, kid?"

"You can't be older than me," Jack says.

"Yeah, physically, but mentally? Y'all are hockey boys, and hockey boys never grow up. Besides, I've got five years on you and a better moisturising regime."

Jack frowns taking a swig of his drink again.

"So, how's Bits doing? He didn't make it to my party on Wednesday."

"Oh, he's back in Madison," Jack hesitates, unsure how much more to say.

Leanne frowns, "Is everything alright"

Jack flushes slightly, clearing his throat. "Uh, yeah, no, he's alright, just... family stuff, y'know."

"Oh," Leanne says, a hint of surprise in her voice, "Alright, well, give him my best then."

"Yeah, I'll pass it on to Eric."

"Eric?"

"Uh... yeah?" Jack frowns, "Bitty?"

Leanne pauses, then laughs. "I don't think I've ever heard his real name. Lord, he’s called Eric, you say?"  

"Uh–"

" _Zimmboni!_ " Tater's head leans in through the door. "We play beer pong now, you join us, yes?"

"Tater-"

"C'mon, you on my team."

Jack rolls his eyes and gets to his feet, "It was nice talking with you, Leanne. I better go save your husband from getting his ass handed to him."

He heads through to the rec room, where Tater's put down a board on top of the pool table to make it suitable for beer pong.

Snowy and Poots are standing at the other side of the table. Snowy has his hands on his hips and is leaning heavily on the right side of his body while Poots has his arms folded across his chest. He raises an eyebrow when Tater comes back dragging Jack with him.

"Really? You're gonna play, Jack?"

"Huh?"

"Party games aren't usually your style."

Jack frowns, before stepping forward to the table and lifting a pingpong ball up between his hands and throwing it into the other team's middle cup. "Well, what can I say, maybe I'm in the mood tonight."

Tater laughs loudly throwing an arm around his shoulder. "That is how it is done, Zimmboni!"

They win the game but only just. Jack's first shot was mainly luck and Tater doesn't have his contacts in so his depth perception is shot to hell. However, Poots and Snowy are already trashed and can't throw a shot to save their life.

The end result is they all drink. A _lot_. Jack feels the old, familiar weightlessness that comes with a certain level of inebriation. He laughs and jokes with people he doesn't know, and drinks more, and more, and more than ever it's like he's seventeen again.

He blows right past his limit with the help of tequila slammers with a girl called Louise-May who, more than anything, is just grateful to have been invited as she keeps telling him. He regrets the tequila immediately.He can taste it in his throat and his stomach is churning with the liquor in a way he can't remember it ever having done before.

Jack realizes with a certain clarity that he's going to vomit; that the tequila is _not_ staying in his stomach.

He doesn't know where Tater's bathroom is. He pulls open a few doors in the hall which are all closets before he heads back to the kitchen. Tater and Leanne are making out again, but Jack blows right past them, pulls open their outside door and vomits onto Tater's back porch.

He hears Tater hiss in Russian behind him, then there is a hand on his back, patting him as he retches.

"Sorry–" Jack gasps. "Sorry I'll pay to–"

His stomach lurches again but there's nothing to come up, just a bit of bile then dry heaving.

"I think is time for bed. Is Eric home?"

"No-" Jack says, "No - with family"

"Well, you stay here–"  

Jack cuts him off by bending over and retching once more into the garden. "I think I'm done," he says, but his voice is shaky and weak, rough with the toil of vomiting.

"Okay then," Tater says, putting an arm under his and essentially lifting him upright like he weighs fifty pounds. "You stay in spare room. Leanne will bring bucket."

"You don't have to-"

"Yes, I do," Tater says, steering him away from the back door and towards the hallway. Leanne's following them, clutching the promised bucket. "You sleep here tonight, I take you home in the morning. What time does Eric come?"

"Uh, he's not coming, he's..." Jack pauses, he can feel his stomach twisting one again, just in time to grab the bucket from Leanne and heave more bile into it once.

"Okay then," Tater says. "You stay here for now, I take you home when you're well."

He's led up the stairs and into a white guest room. God, Jack hopes he doesn't throw up on the sheets.

Tater sets him down on the bed and Leanne set the bucket and a glass of water down next to him. He shuts his eyes. The room spins, like he’s on a boat.

"Night Jack," Leanne whispers, then the light goes out and Jack hears the door shut.

 

-

 

Jack is woken by Tater the next morning pushing open his bedroom door. "Zimmboni, time for breakfast!"

Tater's voice rings through the room. His head is thumping, _pounding_ . He scrunches his eyes shut, "Tater, _shhh_."

"Jack, you are _hungover_?!" Tater exclaims, gleefully. "I don't think I've seen you with hangover before!"

Jack opens one eye, trying to glare, "Tater, can you just take it down a notch please?"

"You should get up, now!"

Jack doesn't think that moving is going to be anywhere in his near future. "Can I just... stay here."

"No, we need room. Lee's mom comes tomorrow."

Jack groans in response, tugging the duvet over his head to protect against the light. "Fine, I leave tomorrow then."

"Leanne's making bacon," Tater singsongs.

 

-

 

It turns out that Jack was not the only member of the team still around, so he eats breakfast with a chirpy Tater, and the incredibly hungover Snowy and Guy. Guy slept on the sofa which seemed to have thrown out his back, and Snowy slept in the downstairs bathroom on the floor. No one knew he was there until that morning.

Jack eats his breakfast in silence, trying not to move, lest he jostle his head and make the pounding kick in once more.

Leanne drives him, Guy, and Snowy home after breakfast since they are all relatively certain that Tater is still drunk.

He just settles on his sofa wrapped in his blanket, the TV on quietly in the background, when his tablet started to beep at him. Jack frowns, reaching out an arm to tapping at the screen until the beeping sttops. The screen turns black, with a gray, spinning wheel then Eric's face appears.

"Eric?" Jack says, shock coloring his tone. "How did you..."

Eric blinks at him through the screen, before squinting. "Whoa, hun, are you sick? You need me to get you some soup?"

Jack shakes his head, which was a mistake as any movement made it feel like there was someone hitting his brain with a hammer. "How would you even do that? I mean, you're in Madison. And, no, no thanks. I don't think I could stomach soup right now."

There's a pause.

"Are you _hungover_?"

Jack sighs, "Party at Tater’s. I can't drink as much as I thought I could."

Eric snorts audible still down the Skype line, "Yeah, well, you don't drink that much anymore. Getting old and all that."

"I'm not old," Jack mumbles. "How's everything down there?"

"Yeah, Grandpa went in for surgery early this morning. Everything went okay they think, but he's still sleeping so we'll know more when he wakes up."

"That's good, right?" Jack tries, sitting up. His head pounds when he moves but once he's upright and still the pain subsides. Eric snorts at his wince.

"Yeah, honey, that's good. I reckon I'll probably stay another week down here, then I'll make my excuses and head back next week at some point, maybe the weekend depending on flights. I need to get back to Samwell, anyway. Poor Tango's living in-between all my boxes back at the Haus, I really gotta get them out."

Jack smiles, "Okay."

Eric talks a bit more about his family, his time down in Madison, how much his cousins are driving him up the wall. It's comfortable between them.

Jack doesn't tell him about the game on Monday.

 

-

 

Jack has training at eight-thirty in the morning so he's up and out the house by seven thirty. The coaches put him through his paces with the plans to bring him back on Ice. It's weird, the way his team works with him. They know how he plays. They can tell what he's planning to do a lot of the time, almost better than he can. He shoots, he passes, and his team are right where he needs them to be when he needs them there.

It's weird. It's great.

He skypes Eric after he gets home, placing his laptop on the kitchen counter while he makes toast.

Eric's face appears on his computer screen, he looks like he's propped up in his bed, wearing just a tank. He gives Jack a tired smile.

"Hey," Eric says as Jack pulls open the fridge, reaching for a protein shake.

"You look awful... damp."

"Yeah," Jack shrugs, "Training was hard."

"You were at training?" Eric frowns. "Should you really be training this hard, I mean-"

"I've been cleared, Eric, doc says it's okay," Jack assures him, taking a swig of his shake. It's overly sweet and processed 'vanilla' flavor but he's used to chugging them by now. He doesn't gag on the way down.

"Yeah, but, shouldn't you _rest_? You've got another four months till the next season, Jack, there's no reason to wear yourself out," Eric says.

"Eric, I _want_ to be on the ice, okay?" Jack sighs, "Just, please, just drop it."

Eric clenches his jaw, "Fine. If that's how you want to play this then fine."

"Eric," Jack says, "I'm sorry, I don't want to fight. How are you?"

"I'm fine, I better get going, I'm gonna visit my grandpa," Eric says, glancing off screen towards something. "I'll talk to you later."

Eric's side goes dead before Jack had time to say goodbye. It feels like he's fucked up, the easy atmosphere they had before quickly gone.

Jack settles down at his computer in the living room, researching stats from recent falconers games.

The apartment feels empty without Eric.

The week leading up to his first game back is a blur, a sweaty, exhausting blur. Jack can't ever remember being as tired, but he forces himself out of bed each morning at 6 in order to get extra ice time, to try and catch up with where he should be.

His coaches are pleased with his progress, with how he can connect with the guys on the ice.

It's good, to be back. He still doesn't tell Eric.

They have a rest day on Friday, just some light skating exercises to keep them moving but nothing too strenuous in order to rest up their muscles.

So Jack trains. He trains, eats the boring roast chicken breasts and plain veg that the nutritionist assigns him, sleeps the appropriate eight to nine hours to ensure his body has time to heal, and he tries not to think about the growing train wreck of his life. He has hockey to focus on, that’s all he needs to think about right now.

They announce that he's playing on the morning of the game. They don't want to call it too early and lock themselves into the decision. Jack sits at home and watches the press conference but he turns it off before the questioning starts.

He's had enough of watching people pick at his bones for their own amusement on national television. It feels like a relief when he hits the off switch.

He has to go to the rink.

Jack still can't drive, so instead he pulls on a beanie and a pair of sunglasses and walks there, his coat neck turned up against the wind. There are paparazzi outside the rink, as always, so he keeps his pace quick, and ignores when their heads perk up at his approaching figure. He makes it through the door before they start yelling and clicking their cameras. Success.

Time to get ready.

To show the world he can still do this. He’s still good enough.

 

-

 

Jack doesn't quite expect the _roar_ when he steps out onto the ice that night, the scream of the crowd when they see him.

It floors him.

His face is projected onto the rink, there's people screaming his name, whooping as he gives a feeble wave, his team skating out around him as they take their places for the National Anthem.

He can see Kent across the rink, the **C** proudly embossed on his chest as he lifts his head and sings.

Jack twists around to face the front again, the last thing he needs is to get caught staring at Kent Parson by the cameras.

 

-

 

Playing in an official NHL match, and the Stanley cup final no less, is nothing like Jack could have imagined.

 _It's just hockey_ , he repeats to himself as Tater passes to him, and he takes the shot. The puck skids towards the goal, before one of the Aces D-men intercepted and sent the puck flying to the other side of the rink.

Jack doesn't think he's lived through such a fast match before. It's unrelenting, the pace they play at.

He doesn't think about Eric.

(He can't stop thinking about Eric. If he's heard. If he's watching. He's planning on coming home the next day, his grandpa finally out of hospital.)

They win 2-1.

Kent shoots him a grin as he heads off the ice and Jack salutes him. The cameras flash.

 

-

 

The first thing Jack does when he gets off the ice is check his cell. It's buzzing relentlessly, there's a text from his mom cursing him out, then saying how much she loves him and how proud she is, then another calling him an absolute idiot but nothing from Eric.

Jack doesn't text him; he doesn't have the time, not in the crowd of his teammates slapping him on the back.

"Jack, that last goal, it was like... _magic_. It was awesome having you out on the ice again."

Jack doesn't know the name of the guy talking to him, looking at him with fucking adoration written all over his face. He tries to smile, and nod.

"Jack!" It's Georgia, pushing open the door to the changing room, clipboard clutched to her chest. No one seems particularly perturbed by her being here. "There's press outside. A lot of them, all looking for _you_."

She pauses, assessing him carefully. "I can get you out the back door, if you would like, however, it _would_ be good for the club if you would talk to them."

Jack takes a deep breath. He can do this. "Yeah, I'll go."

"Good. Please, follow me," Georgia says before twisting on her heel and leaving the changing room. Jack follows her, still wearing half his gear, down the hall and towards where the press are gathered, waiting like vultures.

He's assaulted by the flash of cameras when they finally reach the press pit. There's microphones and voices everywhere. He follows Georgia up onto a stage/podium type thing, sitting down behind the desk. The squawking quietens.

"Uh, hey, I heard you guys had some questions for me?" Jack says, breaking the tension. He has to be charming. Be the confident version of himself he's seen on videos.

The squawking comes back with a vengeance. Georgia's hushing the crowd before she points directly to a reporter. "Uh, yes, you, please."

"Hi, Jeanna Medina, ESPN, we were all... surprised to hear that you'd be back on the ice tonight, in time for the opening Stanley Cup Final match, when in past your representatives have been very vocal about your need to rest. Would you care to elaborate on this?"

Jack pauses, staring out at the sea of reporters. He chooses his words carefully, the way he was taught to since he was a child. "The decision was made carefully over the past few weeks, in agreement with doctors, but no one wanted to commit to anything, incase I wasn't ready. I'm thrilled that I'm able to get back on the ice, and get out there to represent my team in the finals."

He takes a breath. He's got this.

Georgia puts a hand on his shoulders, before picking out another reporter.

"Uh, James Bosowski, USA Today. Would you say that the original concern over your injury was excessive then?"

Jack frowns at him, his mouth hanging open. "Are you kidding-"

Georgia's hand tightens on his shoulder, warning him. Jack clears his throat. "Sorry, I just mean to say, have you seen that match? The one where I went down?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"So you _are_ aware I was stretchered off of the ice, unconscious and covered in my own blood?"

"Uh huh, but-"

"I had a serious head injury and everyone commenting online and in the news saying that I should have been back up and on the ice earlier needs to butt out. They don't know my medical details, it's not their decision. I'm back on the ice now because it was deemed safe by a medical professional but it has taken me over a month to get well enough to even consider playing, so _no_ I don't think the concern was excessive. Now, are there any other questions please?"

 

-

 

The press goes on longer than Jack would've liked, but other than the initial outburst he keeps his cool, almost zoning out as he answers the questions.

By the time he gets back to the changing room most of the team is gone, other than Tater, who's just sitting in his jeans and a T-shirt, waiting on him. He grins when Jack steps into the room.

"Zimmboni! Thank you, you distract press, rest of team get home clear!"

"Well, whatever I can do to help," Jack says wryly. "You better get home, I'm sure I saw your wife in the stands, she'll be waiting on you."

"You okay tonight, Jack? Your boy come over?"

"No but–sorry, one second" Jack's cut off by his cell phone ringing. He holds up a finger to Tater, then grabs his bag from his locker and yanks out his phone. Eric's name flashes on the screen. "That's him. I better take this."

"Okay, I see you tomorrow," Tater grins, then pats him on the shoulder and heads out the door. Jack hits the green button on his phone, a sense of releif flodding at seeing Eric's name.

"Eric, hi, I was just going to call-"

"Were you? Were you finally gonna call me and let me know about this _stupid_ plan of yours?!"

Jack frowns, "Eric it wasn't-"

"No, you know what? I don't want to have this talk. I am _livid_ right now, I can't believe that you did this-"

"It wasn't your decision!" Jack snaps back down the line. He can almost _feel_ Eric's anger, the heat of it radiating through the phone line. When he'd imagined this conversation, when he'd planned out what he was going to say in his head, it didn't go like this. "It was _mine_ , something that I got to decide about _my_ self."

Jack can hear the noise of frustration Eric makes down the line. "You think I'm not affected by this? God you didn't even let me _know_ , Coach had to tell me! He was like ‘Oh, Junior, you kept Jack’s big return on the ice quiet there, ha ha', and I had no idea what he was talking about!”

"It wasn’t about _you_ Eric! I needed to play, you didn’t factor in–” he pauses and silence rings out. Jack clenches his fists, he’s making this worse, so much worse, “I didn’t mean it like that, it came out wrong–”

Eric clears his throat and Jack falls silent. "I thought... I thought we were _working._ I thought you were _trying_ , Jack."

"I am!"

"This isn't trying!" Eric's voice is raw. "You don't purposefully try to keep me out of decisions if you’re trying. You shouldn't _want_ to."

"I don't know how to talk to you," Jack admits, words cracking. "I don't know how to tell you things, especially when it's not stuff you want to hear. I don't want to let you down, put you through anything else."

Eric is quiet down the line, Jack can hear him sniffing slightly. He clenches his fist. It feels _wrong_. He feels hollow; like he’s been gutted.

"This isn't working,” Eric says quietly. “This isn't working and it obviously isn't fair on either of us."  

"Eric," Jack tries, his voice wavering. "No, I didn't mean..."

Eric takes a deep breath. "I know you didn't. I... I'm putting too much on you. I can't expect this from you, I just, I thought we were at the point where we decided things together."

Jack swallows, trying to calm the lump in his throat as he blinks at the ceiling, staring into the light. "I... I did, too. I mean, I wanted to. I was trying." He's crying now, he can feel the tears rolling down his cheeks silently. It's useless arguing, he knows it, they both know it. "I wanted to try. For you."

"Well," Eric says, taking a deep, shaky breath. "This is obviously somethin' you need to do, but I can't sit and watch you rip yourself apart on the ice, and you won’t choose me over hockey, not where you are now. So how about we take a break. We take a break, and we don't see each other for a little while, 'cause I don't know if I can... Not now. Not yet."

"Eric," Jack says softly, falling onto the bench, "I'm sorry."

"I know, Jack, I know." Eric takes a breath, Jack can hear it shake. "So, I'm gonna maybe go stay with Shitty for a while when I head back up. I'll come get my stuff at some point this week."

There's a pause, then; "Take care of yourself."

"You too, Eric." It’s all he can bring himself to offer, forcing the words out.

The line goes dead, and Jack is left, sitting in the empty locker room, alone, watching the replay on screen of the on-ice celebration of his victory.

 

-

 

Jack buries himself in training. He trains and trains and trains until his lungs heave and his legs ache. Then he pushes some more.

His cell runs out of battery and he chooses not to charge it to stop the temptation to call Eric. It's an awful gnawing feeling in his chest that never really goes away but playing loosens it. Slightly.

So he trains. He eats. He sleeps. He dodges invites to go out and ignores the phone calls from his parents.

They win their second game. Jack scores a hat trick. He's ruthless on the ice, a relentless force of nature. He ignores the sports commentators and paparazzi who speculate about his personal life and spits on a camera when someone tries to question him after a match.

Georgia reams him out for that one. Jack just sits and takes it, hands clenched under the table until she tells him he can go. She tells him to visit his therapist again.

Jack doesn't.

He heads home that night in a daze, adrenaline thrumming in his veins. Jack's barely aware of the turns he takes to get to his apartment. His cell phone feels like it's burning in his pocket, he checks it endlessly, the thing constantly vibrating, but never from Eric, never important.

He strips off by the door and heads for the shower. His pulse is racing, hammering in his ears, but he can't calm down. Jack switches on the water, turning the temperature up as high as it would go.

He doesn't know how to calm down, or even why he's gotten so wound up, but it's been stewing. This hungry anger this life, at himself, churning up his insides and rattling in his head.

The water is scalding on his back until it eventually numbs with the heat. Jack stands there for so long the water eventually goes cold while he stares blankly at the tile pattern in front of him, willing himself not to punch it.

If he hits something he'll probably break his hand, or at least re-fracture his pinky and then he wouldn’t be able to play.

 

-

 

The next game they have to travel to Las Vegas. When he leaves, he shoots a text to Eric to say he'll be away for a couple days if he wants to grab his things. Jack turns his phone off once he sends it, ignoring the knot in his stomach.

Jack sits on his hands to try to stop them from trembling.

They win the next game. They're three matches up now. The sports presenters cannot get enough of it; the underdogs coming up to topple the Ace's throne. They don't mention the shake-ups to the Aces line up, the Falconers stats; that would negate the underdog story, they wouldn't sell papers.

Jack tunes it out. There's no room for anything else, not if he wants to win.

Georgia pulls him aside after the match.

"Jack, I'm worried about you."

"I'm fine," he says, shaking off her arm.

"Have you been to therapy at all?"

"God, I don't need it, okay? Would you just lay off-"

"Jack Zimmermann, I am your _manager_ okay so I am not doing this to annoy you, or whatever you think I'm doing it for. I am your _manager_ and I am concerned about your future here at this team, if you continue what you are doing."

Jack freezes.

"Jack, you have been through a lot, but we can't help you, unless you let us."

"I'm not going to a psychiatrist, I don't want pills, okay? I can't- I can't trust myself."

It’s a raw admission, he didn’t mean to let out, didn’t mean to worry Georgia in that way. He’s _fine_ , he’d be fine if everyone would just leave him the fuck alone.

Georgia's eyes widen, "Jack-"

He turns away, "Please just drop it." Jack clenches his jaw, taking a breath before he heads back to his team. They are debating where to go out for drinks that night. Jack makes his excuses. No one pushes him too hard on it, word has spread about Eric.

Jack lies awake that night until four am, unable to stop himself from tossing and turning, thinking over everything that was said during The Phone Call, until it's a blur of reality and fiction. His alarm goes off at 6am for practice, jerking him from a light doze.

He's so tired at training that Coach Lewis sends him off the ice early and to the team doctor. He's given a prescription for some sleeping pills and told yet again that he should go see his therapist or a psychiatrist or _whatever,_ just see someone _._

Jack feels like he's barely holding it together and apparently he's not fooling anyone.

He takes the pills that night with shaking hands. He sleeps soundly for the first time in days.

 

-

 

They lose their next game, which isn't all that surprising. They were due really and the Aces are a good team, even if they've recently retired a lot of their old players. The sleeping pills make him drowsy. They lower his reaction times.

Jack stops taking them after that. Either he’s drowsy with the pills or tired without them.

Their next game back is in Providence, on home turf. While he's traveling Jack, can't wait to get back to his own bed, his giant shower, his home, but when they arrive he wishes he was back on the road again.

His house is too empty now.

 

-

 

All too quickly it's game day again.

If they win this one, they win. Fullstop.

The thought doesn't stop rattling around Jack's head all through the day and then into the game. It feels like he's just made himself some toast and then suddenly he's on the ice.

The home crowd is screaming, the tension palpable. Everyone knows that this could be it. This could be their first cup.

They make it through the first two periods without so much as a goal from either side. Jack watches as Kent gets the puck, skating up the ice towards their goal. He lifts his head to line up the shot and instead catches Jack's eye.

Kent stumbles.

Marty checks him, gets the puck and sends it flying towards Jack.

Jack passes to Tater.

Tater shoots.

Tater scores.

There's three minutes left on the clock it's over. They all know as much. With the way the Aces have been playing they're not making another goal in that time.

Jack joins in the group hug, Tater's tearing up, staring towards the seats behind the players bench where Jack can see his wife's on her feet, clapping madly.

His heart lurches. They look so happy.

Leanne's waves at them, one hand clutched on her stomach.

Tater blows her a kiss. The camera's will be eating this up. They’ll be in the gossip rags by mornings, rumors of pregnancy swirling from the way she’s grasping her stomach.

They begin playing again, defensively; no one's aiming for goals. Coach subs Marty in for him, 'just incase he tries something flashy.'

They win. It's done.

They have the Stanley Cup.

Jack heads back onto the ice to hoist it up with his team. There's confetti pouring around them, the crowd is going wild.

Jack wonders if Eric's watching.

 

-

 

They head out to celebrate, obviously. Jack doesn't feel much like celebrating, it doesn't really feel like a win to him but he goes to keep Tater happy. He can't stop thinking about Eric.

His teammates don't really know what to do for him. They look at him with concern before offering him a drink. Jack takes everything they offer.

The city is buzzing with their win. Every bar they go into people recognize them, asking for autographs, buying them drinks. He obliges and smiles for the cameras as best he can.

Jack's being a kill joy. The voice in the back of his head keeps telling him that his team doesn't want him there, that they'd have more fun without him. It won't shut up.

So when they get to the third bar, Jack says he's going to grab a drink, then sits down on a bar stool out of sight from the group, hoping they'll forget about him.

"Surprised to see you here."

Jack jerks his head up, to find Kent sliding onto the stool next to him with a grin. He waves down the bartender and orders some weird, fruity sounding cocktail.

"You lost," Jack states. It’s a fact, game analysis will be playing Kent’s stumble on repeat, holding it over Kent for years.

Kent shrugs, before reaching over for Jack's beer and taking a swig. "We were losing anyway, I just ended it quicker. I needed a drink."

Jack grabs his beer back. "Fuck off."

"Where's your better half anyway? I wouldn't have thought he'd've missed this," Kent asks, his tone biting.

Jack's silence is telling.

"Oh," Kent says quietly, shoulders slumping. "You alright?"

"Don't act like you care, Kent, it's unbecoming."

"Fuck you, Zimms," Kent spits, but there's no heat behind it. "You want a shot?"

"What do you think?"

"I think," Kent says slowly, looking over Jack's shoulder and frowning. "That if you want to get drunk properly we should get out here before your team come save you."

Jack glances in the direction that Kent's looking. His teammates are staring. Tater's on his feet. It’s a bad decision, he knows it, a part of him screaming at himself not to do it, not to be an idiot. Jack downs the rest of his beer and stands up. "Let's get out of here."

 

-

 

Three bars, several drinks and an uncountable number of shots later, they find themselves in the VIP booth of a hot pink basement club, passing a bottle of champagne between the two of them. It reminds him of when they were eighteen and used to go out clubbing in Montreal.

The worry and anxiety and _energy_ around the cup has dissipated. He's just left with this hollow emptiness. He doesn't know if it's better, but it's certainly easier.

"It's just, like," Jack says, his speech slurring as he leans back in his chair, flailing an arm wildly. "Nothing about him fits anymore. In my head."

"You're being awful loud there, Zimms," Kent says, a smirk playing across his features.

"I look at him, and it's just a reminder of everything that's missing," Jack continues, sighing as he slumps back in his seat. There's a moment of relative quiet, before Parson's leaning across the table and grabbing him by the hand, tugging him to his feet.

“I have literally no idea what you’re talking about,” Parse rolls his eyes. “I know you’re sad your boyfriends left you, or _whatever_ the fuck has gone on, but I did not drag you to this club for a pity party, Zimmerman.

“Now down that drink, and let's go wiggle that famous ass until you get us some free shots," Parse finishes, dragging him towards the dance floor.

Jack chugs back the rest of the bubbles on the way and drops the empty bottle onto a passing table, allowing himself to be lead into the crowd of writing, sweaty bodies.

It may be his team's town, but it's not like hockey players get a lot of media attention, so Jack's not even thinking about being recognised, not as Kent pushes him onto the dance floor, spinning them until they're face to face, grinding among the sweaty bodies under the strobing lights.

Jack loses himself in the beat of an unfamiliar pop song, slinging an arm over Kent's shoulder. Kent's singing, a grin spread on his face. They're surrounded by people, but no one cares about them, not with the anonymity of the crowd. He feels untethered from anything, from everything. He's falling again, and he doesn't want to stop, to hit the ground.

Kent reaches up a hand, stroking along Jack's cheek. "I've missed you, Zimms."

He automatically leans into the touch. The world is swimming around them but Kent's eyes are bright. "Kenny," Jack sighs. "That's not fair."

"No, it's not," Kent says. "But maybe this is our second chance, a do-over."

The thought rattles in his head. A small part of himself thinks that Kent right, maybe that's what this is. They should try again. Kent had loved him so much.

Too much.

He can remember Kent reaching out to him after his overdose, trying desperately to cling to them, to Jack when his very foundation was crumbling. He remembered the crack in Parse's voice when Jack told him that it would be best if they took a break.

Jack's still standing, silently dumbfounded by this suggestion when Parse surges upward, pressing their lips together, one hand clamped down on the back of Jack's neck, the other one gripping the waist of his shirt. Jack melts into the kiss, ever so slightly, before pushing Kent away sharply.

" _No_!" Jack says, stepping backwards, "No, Kent."

"Jack–"

But Jack's gone. He turns and flees the dance floor, the strobing lights and the sweaty crowd before Kent has a chance to grab him, to pull him back and explain.

He can't do this.

He doesn't want to.

He steps out of the club, into the cold air. The bouncer gives him a dubious look and he's sure that a group of girls waiting in line have their phones out and are pointing at him. Jack doesn't care.

He sits on the curb, head still swimming as snippets of Parse com back to him; glimpses of a house party that don't add up to much, but the memory of Parson pushing him back against the door, kissing him like they used to.

He pulls his cell from his pocket, sitting down on the curb, and dealing Eric's number. He needs to talk to Eric, _wants to_ , badly, this yearning deep inside him.

It rings twice before he picks up, voice groggy with sleep. "Jack? It's one in the morning, what are you-"

"Eric," Jack slurs down the line. "I like your voice."

"Oh goodness, Jack, are you drunk?" Eric asks, his voice rising in pitch.

"Yeah," Jack nods, even though Eric can't see him. "Yeah, and I want to go home, but I don't know how."

"Oh, Jesus," Eric says. "Right, stay where you are. I'm gonna get someone to pick you up, get you safe."

"Eric," Jack moans down the phone, his face crumpling. "Eric, Parse kissed me, he kept saying that this was our chance, our chance to fix it, and I missed him so I let him, but only for a second, 'cause I miss you more."

"Jack," Eric says evenly. "I'm going to need to phone someone to pick you up, which means I have to hang up the phone. Please stay where you are."

"Can't you pick me up?"

"Jack, I don't live there right now."

The thought hit's Jack like a ton of bricks, a sobering thought in his muddled mind. " _Ouais_ , okay, I'll stay still."

The phone line goes dead and Jack sits there, waiting, until a dark car pulls up in front of him on the curb. The door swings open and Jack sees Georgia leaning over the center console, looking down at him with barely controlled rage. She's got her hair tied up in a bun. As far as he can tell is wearing her pyjamas and a hockey jersey.

"Get in the car, Zimmermann."

Jack's unsteady on his feet, but he pushes himself up off the curb. He drops his cell when he gets up though, it bouncing off of the curb and onto the road surface. "Oh, no," he says, before leaning over, one hand braced on the car for balance, and picking up the cell. The screen is shattered into a million pieces. He looks at the phone with dismay, "I broke it."

"For the love of god, Zimmermann, get in the car, or I will leave you here for the paparazzi to harass until the morning."

Jack manages to hoist himself into the car, pulling the seatbelt over him.

"I swear to god, I am done with your shit, Jack," Georgia says, as she pulls away from the club. Jack pulls his legs up to his chest. "If you vomit in this car I will dump you at the side of the road."

Jack doesn't say anything in return, just focuses on watching the bends in the road, trying to keep his stomach from twisting too much.

"I remembered something tonight," he offers finally. "I remembered Parse, at a party."

Georgia doesn't say anything in return.

"I just," he's crying now, god he's been such a crier since this injury, that boink on the head must've also hit the part of his brain that controls his tear ducts or something. "Things are coming back to me, but it's not like all there, it doesn't all fit back together. I'm not who I was, I'm not good enough."

"Jack," Georgia says, her voice softer than he expects. "Jack, honey, we're gonna talk about this more in the morning, when you're in your right mind, okay, but I think you need to get help."

"But I already did," Jack insists, "I got help, I got better. If I go back then - then it didn't work. I didn't get better."

"Jack, you don't even remember getting better, or therapy," Georgia says. "It's not like this is a linear process. After all you've been through, no one would judge you."

Jack doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to stop the feelings of crippling doubt that are all he can think about. He doesn't understand, alcohol used to make it better, used to make him carefree, but this has got to be the worst he's felt since he woke up for the first time in another hospital bed.

"I miss Eric," he finally admits, as Georgia pulls into his building's carpark. "I mean, I didn’t know him, but it feels like I do, y'know...now?"

"Jack," Georgia says, soothingly, as she parks the car in his space. "I don't think anyone can know how you're feeling right now, not with everything that's going on. But if you miss Eric you should tell him. He sounded scared out his wits when he was on the phone."

"He hates me now, though," Jack says. "As he should."

"Jack, that boy couldn't hate you if he tried."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW regarding Parse:** After the Falconers win the cup Parse meets Jack drinking sadly at a bar, he convinces him to go clubbing with him and the two of them get smashed. 
> 
> Parse and Jack are dancing, when Parse kisses him. Jack pulls back almost instantly and says that he doesn't want this, before running away. 
> 
> And that's what you missed on Glee!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	7. Chapter 7

Jack doesn't think that getting up has ever been quite so painful. From the minute he wakes he wishes that he hadn't, that he was still unconscious.

The night before flashes through his head. God. He's ruined it. He's ruined his life.

Jack’s stomach twists, violently, sending him lurching out of bed and towards the bathroom. He makes it just in time to vomit into the toilet.

He wretches up the contents of his stomach until there's nothing left and he's just dry heaving over the toilet bowl, tears streaming down his face. He falls back against the bathroom wall, trying to catch his breath, when Georgia appears in the doorway, looking down at him with a mixture of concern and judgement.

"Why are you still here?" he rasps.

"Didn't want you to choke on your vomit in your sleep," she replies. "C'mon, put some real clothes on. We're going to have to head to the rink, something's come up."

Jack looks at her incredulously. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, c'mon, up you get."

Jack blinks at her. She doesn't move. He forces himself to his feet finally, heading over to sink to splash some water on his face. He looks like shit.

"If I vomit in your car, it's your fault."

"You can pay to have it cleaned; I know what you earn," Georgia says, giving him a wry grin. "Think of it this way: if you come to the rink with me, you can go lie down on the ice."

That does sound good; Jack feels like he's on fire, too hot, too dehydrated. "Do I have time to shower?"

Georgia leans in, giving him a quick whiff. "You better. You reek, Zimmermann. Be quick about it, though."

 

-

 

Jack takes a quick shower, pulls on the first clean clothes he can find, (he desperately needs to do some laundry) and he follows Georgia down to her car. She must've left at some point since she's now wearing a suit and not her pyjama pants.

Jack feels underdressed.

When they get into the car, after he's buckled up and she's pulled the car out of the car parking space, he clears his throat. "Is it bad?"

"It could be. I'm reserving judgement till I've seen the... evidence myself," Georgia says noncommittally.

Jack clenches his hands together, forcing himself to take a deep breath.

He can do this, whatever it is. The season's over; whatever happens now is superfluous.

They head to one of the board rooms. God, this is serious.

The head of PR, Ashley Gonska, is standing along with Ruby Jones, the head of social media, his coach, and an unfamiliar man in a suit with a frown.

"Oh Jesus," Jack curses, sitting down at the table. He's fixed with a look from Ashley.

"Jesus is right," Ashley says. "Did you have a fun night, Jack?"

"Ashley," Georgia scolds. "Be professional."

Ashley shoots her a glare, pursing her lips. "We have a serious issue, Georgia. He doesn't need you _coddling_ him."

"No, what Jack doesn't need is an _entire boardroom_ of people attacking him," Georgia says firmly, lifting her chin higher.

"Fine," Ashley sets her mouth before spinning to face Jack. "Jack, everyone in this room knows about your sexuality. As far as I was aware, you are in a committed relationship with Eric Bittle and keeping it on the down low. Am I to believe that has ended?"

Jack swallows, nodding stiffly. "Does this have a point?"

"Well," Ashley says, before pulling out some photographs and sliding them across the table.

Oh.

Oh shit.

"These were sent to us this morning, rather than the papers. Thank the lord for small mercies."

It's photographs of him and Parse in that club, dancing together, then, as Jack flicked further into the pile, of Parse kissing him, then him running away. He's still wearing his Falconer's jersey, Parse in that stupid backwards Aces cap. There's no mistaking them.

"Even without the _official merchandise,_ you're both wearing, you're recognisable people, especially after the Stanley cup final. There's no arguing the existence of these pictures."

Jack swallows. This isn't how he wanted to come out. Not like this: though some shitty, second rate paparazzi photos in a sleazy club.

"We paid him off and he's signed a contract that says if he publishes or shares those photos with anybody else he'll get sued to hell. He'll be bankrupt, so I think we're safe on that front."

Jack's head jerks up, "You... you bought him out?"

"Well, duh," Ashley says, rolling her eyes at him. It's the softest she's been towards him all morning. "You did a stupid thing, but it's not like none of us here have gotten drunk and made out with their ex in a club."

She sits down. "I'll leave you to break it to Parson since I doubt the Aces will know, it seems like he came after you because we would be more... sympathetic."

Jack nods. He feels sick, stomach still knotted with worry that hasn't dissipated. "Thank you. Thank you so much, you guys didn't have to-"

"Didn't have to what? Buy him out?" Georgia interrupts. "Of course we did. We're not just going to leave you to get picked apart by the press to save a bit of cash."

"I, uh, I need to go, make some calls." He can feel his heart hammering behind his ribs. He just can't stop fucking up. He's a disappointment, again.

"Jack," Georgia says, grabbing him by the arm. "This is not a problem for us, but please, I want you to think about coming out. The stress of this secret is not good for you."

Jack nods quickly, "I will, uh I mean think about it. I gotta– I gotta call Eric. And Parse."

He rushes from the room, leaving the rest of them to work out whatever other PR details need sorting. Jack heads down the hallway, towards the locker room for some privacy. Everyone is too hungover from the night before, no one needs to train anymore. Jack really doubts any of the other Falcs will have left their beds by this time.

The screen on is phone is shattered but it still seems to work, so he swipes gingerly at it, bring up the contacts book. He calls Kent first. The phone rings and rings and rings, so long that Jack's about to hang up when Kent finally answers.

"This better be important," Kent says before Jack can say a word.

"You should get voicemail," Jack says.

"No one uses voicemail anymore, Zimms, it's twenty-seventeen. People text now. You should try it."

"Fuck you," Jack spits.It’s an instinct, a reflex more than anything, where Parse is concerned. He sighs and pinches his brow; he's being unfair. "Look, I'm sorry about last night, I didn't mean to lead you on–"

"Oh, we are _not_ doing this," Kent interrupts bluntly. "Jack, I was drunk, too drunk, it was nothing."

"Well," Jack clears his throat. "A paparazzi caught _nothing_ on camera. Falc’s PR bought out the pictures, so we're in the clear but..."

"Fuck," Kent finishes. "Oh _fuck_."

"Yeah."

They're quiet, for a while, then he hears Kent take a deep steadying breath down the line. "God, I'm so _sick_ of this constant fear. I should just do it, I should fucking come out and be done with it."

"Well. Why don't you?"

Kent lets out a low, shaking breath. "Don't be naive, Jack, I could ask the same of you," Kent spits. "This is the worst. Simon is gonna have my balls for this."

Jack assume Simon must be the Aces' PR guy. "I mean he doesn't have to know. No one has to know, the Falconers have the only copies of the photos."

"There's gonna be gossip, there can't not be. We were in a fucking club just after you won the Stanley Cup," Kent insists.

"Yeah, _gossip_ , there's always been gossip about us, Kenny. That's nothing new."

"Don't call me that," Kent snaps. "You don't get to call me that-"

"Okay," Jack says softly. "Okay. I just wanted to let you know that it's sorted."

"Thanks," Kent bites out. "You're such a saint."

Jack’s trying to stay calm, trying to be fair, but Kent knows just how to push his buttons, and anger is roiling in his gut. "I didn't kiss you, Kent, okay, you don't get to be mad at me _again_ for not wanting to be with you."

"Again?"

"Yeah. _Again_. Remember that party you crashed when I was in college? I'm sorry that you're hurting. I'm sorry that you can’t get over me or don't seem to _want_ to get over me, but I'm done, okay? I'm not going to be guilt-tripped over not returning your feelings anymore."

Jack hangs up the phone.

He breathes.

His hands don't shake and he counts it as a win.

Jack's about to force himself to get back up, to head down the hall towards the meeting that's probably still going on about him when he stops, and instead hits his contact list and finds Eric's name.

He hits call.

There's a few rings, then Eric picks up.

"Jack?"

"Hey," Jack says softly. It's good to hear his voice. "I... I fucked up."

Eric laughs at him, his voice is so warm. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Jack says. "I'm okay. Are you okay?"

"I'm... as okay as I can be. Congrats, by the way, on the win. It must've meant a lot to you."

"Thanks," Jack says, his voice hollow. "I've been with the PR team today. There was a leak, last night. It's fixed so it's not going public, but I was almost outed."

"Oh lord," Eric sighs. "That's just... That's shitty is what it is."

Jack snorts. "Yeah, so, that felt pretty awful and you know what? I don't want to feel that way again."

"O-kay?"

"I want to come out. That's what I was calling to tell you."

"Oh," Eric says, surprise coloring his tone. "Oh that's, well that's great. I'm happy for you."

Jack brings up a hand to rub the back of his neck. " Eric, about last night–"

"You don't have to say anything," Eric says quickly. "I just mean, we're not together, or anything, and I know that you and Parse have that history."

"I didn't kiss him," Jack says firmly. "I didn't want to kiss him and I didn't initiate it. I leaned in for a second before I pushed him away because I don't want him."

"Oh."

"I want you."

"Jack," Eric says. "Jack, you don't know what you want."

Jack clenches his jaw, counting to ten in his head before he speaks. "Can you please stop doing that? I’m going through some shit, yeah, but I’m an adult. If you don’t want to be with me anymore, then that’s fine. But you don’t get to tell me what I do and don’t want."

Eric pauses Jack can hear his own heartbeat in the ringing silence, it's thrumming under his skin. "Sorry, I shouldn't have done that," Eric says. "But you can't blame me for not believing you. I mean, what reason do you have to love me? You don't even know me."

The words are cutting. “That's not true and you know it. I know you better than I know anyone right now."

Eric takes a shuddering breath, Jack can hear it. "It's fine. I'm gonna go."

The phone goes dead before Jack can say another word.

He fires off a text to Parse before he heads back through to the PR board meeting.

 **Today** 14.56

I'm coming out.

 

He locks his phone and shoves it into his pocket so he can't see Parse's reply. He doesn't need to know what Kent thinks about this. This is for him.

 

-

 

The actual act of coming out is a bit of an anti-climax in the end.

Jack stands on a stage and he tells the world everything. He's done with secrets. He tells them that he's bisexual; that he has a general anxiety disorder he's been dealing with since he was a teenager; that he overdosed on his anxiety meds at eighteen - not cocaine like the rumours suggested. He tells them about his accident and the memory loss he's been struggling with ever since.

He doesn't take any questions and switches off his (freshly repared) cell after leaving the stage.

He’s watching the news one morning about a week later when snippets of a press conference flash up. Kent's on the screen telling the world he's gay.

Jack texts him

 **Today** 8.45

I saw the news; congrats

i can't believe u used a semicolon in  
a text

I can't believe your up. Isn't it before  
six where you are?

*you’re

turns out being out gets mega tail

You're unbelievable.

:D :D :D

 

 

 **Today** 9.03

We cool?

We're cool.

 

 

-

 

It's the off season so Jack doesn't have to be anywhere or deal with anyone, he can just switch off his cell, and ignore the sports channels. The paparazzi are particularly bad after his press conference, and tabloids keep publishing awful, untrue stories about him with ‘insider info’ from ‘sources close to him’.

It’s all a load of bull shit, so instead Jack decides to read through his thesis bit by bit. He calls his mom a lot (she's proud of him; she calls him brave and tells him he has to come visit soon) and books an appointment with his old therapist after getting the contact details from Georgia.

Therapy is... weird. Jack has been in therapy before but perhaps not as much as he should have been growing up, trying to deal with the pressures put onto him.

"Jack, it's nice to see you again. I'm Dr. Reid."

"Hi," Jack says meekly, sitting down in a rather comfortable armchair. Dr. Reid looks about his father's age, with a small, pointed chin and dark hair which was graying at the temples.

"Well, I'll start by telling you something about myself, and then you go. How does that sound?"

"Uh, well... you know me, don't you? I mean... I've been seeing you for years according to Georgia."

"Do you feel like I know you?"

Jack pauses, then shakes his head. "No, no, and I don't know who you are."

"Well then," Dr. Reid says with a smile. "I'll start. I'm Jonathan Reid. I enjoy fishing and I hate hockey which, funnily enough, means I have a _lot_ of hockey players as patients."

There's a beat of silence then Jack laughs. Dr. Reid gives him a smile.

For the first time since he woke up he feels like this therapy shit could work.

It has to.

 

-

 

A few days later he get’s a call from Georgia.

“Hey Jack, how’s the time off treating you?”

“Yeah, it’s good. Quiet,” Jack says, falling down onto his sofa. “I found all my old camera and stuff the other day.”

“Oh? You getting back into photography?” Georgia asks.

“Not too sure, but thinking about it,” Jack says. It’s not a lie. He wants to try it, see why he’d liked it so much but it’s hard. He has all his old photographs to compare to and confront all the knowledge he’s lost. “Is there a reason for your call? Not that I don’t like speaking to you.”

“Uh yeah, actually,” Georgia sighs, her tone going more business like. “ Seth Offill has reached out to us.”

Jack frowns, “Who?”

“The kid you fought with,” Georgia explains. “He wants to speak with you.”

Panic claws at his throat. Jack swallows it down. He can still remember that kids face from the TV screen in the hospital, Jack’s blood splattered across it. “Uh, he wants to speak to _me_?”

“Yeah, he says he needs to apologise, y’know in person, since it was so much more serious than he was lead to believe.”

Jack lets out a long breath, staring out the window. “Tell him no, please, I don’t really want to speak to him.”

“You sure?”

“I don’t need some phoney apology from some kid that’s been forced into sensitivity training, Georgia,” Jack reasons. “That’s not going to help me.”

“I’ll let him know,” Georgia says. “Take care Jack.”

The line clicks dead.

 

-

 

Jack’s at home that night, trying to figure something to eat, pulling open the cupboards in his kitchen when he finds a small red notebook.

He opens it up and recognizes the handwriting from some of the notes he’d left; it’s Erics. He frowns at it, flicking through the pages full of recipes. He puts it down and finds his phone. He toys with the idea of calling Eric, of getting to hear his voice again, but decides it. That’s not fair to Eric, not when he’s asked for space.

 **Today** 15.46

Think you left a recipe book here?

It’s red; hand written.

 

 **Today** 16.01

That was made for you,  
nutritionist approved.

 

 **Today** 16.33

Thanks, this is amazing!

Thanks!

Really, you should think about publishing this,  
title it ‘for dumb athletes who can’t cook.’

Lol!

 

 

-

 

Tater appears at his apartment door the next day clutching a casserole in one hand and a six pack in the other.

"Zimmboni! We have lunch now, no excuses. I bring beer."

"Oh, uh, thanks," Jack says, stepping aside to let Tater in. "I'm, uh, not drinking right now."

"The beer is for me," Tater says. "I cannot have beer in house anymore, so instead I come here to see you! Leanne does not get mad that way."

Tater settles himself on Jack's couch and holds up the casserole. "Needs to go into the fridge. Leanne say cook for one and a half hour at three fifty degrees."

Jack takes the casserole and heads back to the kitchen to put it away. By the time he gets back, a bottle of orange juice in hand, Tater has the TV on and his feet propped up on Jack's coffee table, a beer already cracked open.

“Should you really be drinking if it makes Leanne mad?” Jack says, eyeing the beer can warily.

Tater waves his arm, giving him a laugh, “No, Leanne does not mind that I drink, she minds that she can’t! So, I no longer drink beer in the house.”

“Oh,” Jack says. “I guess that’s alright.”

"So!" Tater says as Jack settles. "Leanne is with child!"

"Yeah, I figured," Jack says, giving him a wide smile, "Congrats man! I'm happy for you."

"Great," Tater beams. "You will be godfather then?"

Jack blinks. "What?"

"Godfather? Am I not saying this right? Leanne said earlier–"

"No, no you're saying it right, I just..." Jack lets out a breath. "Godfather. Wow."

Tater looks at him, concern evident, "Is it too much? Leanne say it is too much, but I thought–"

"No, no," Jack swallows, shaking his head frantically. "No, it's not too much. I'm honoured, Alexi, really honoured."

Tater grins at him again. "Good. Now, let's watch last game again. I want to see my winning goal!"

"Are you sure?" Jack asks, a hint of desperation in his voice. He can't help himself, it's like picking at a scab before it's ready to come off. "I mean, after everything..."

"After everything you are still _Jack,"_ Tater says, still smiling warmly. "You are my friend, and you will be my baby's friend too."

They sit and watch highlights in a comfortable quiet. It's easy.

 

-

 

Slowly, Jack heals.

His memory doesn't really return, not in any substantial amount. He has flashes here and there of his missing years but nothing _real_ , more feelings than anything else.

Eric doesn't come back to him.

It's okay, he thinks. He can cope without his past. He _is_ coping without his past.

Therapy helps more than he thought it would. Dr. Reid thinks that the anger he's been feeling, the impulsiveness and recklessness, is tied into his injury. There's no quick fix but at least he has something to work on, some tangible reason that there are days he just feels like screaming at the top of his lungs.

Lardo invites him to her birthday party. Jack had been avoiding contacting them, unsure how to reach out after the last time they’d seen each other. He’s sitting at the kitchen table clutching the invite when he calls Shitty, heart racing.

“ ‘Lo?”

“Hey,” Jack says, letting out a breath.

“Jacko!” Shitty says exuberantly. “Oh man, bro, I am happy to hear from you.”

He sounds like he means it, like he really does miss Jack. “It’s good to hear you too, how are you doing?”

The thought that Shitty obviously must miss Jack, but not him, past Jack, _other_ Jack creeps into his thoughts. He tries not to let himself dwell on it.

“Oh man, I am _screwed_ , I’ve no idea what to get Lardo for her birthday, I mean, especially not now she’s doing this whole ‘less possessions’ thing? Like she doesn’t even want books anymore, everything’s on her Kindle.”

He doesn’t know what advice to offer Shitty, what Lardo could possibly want for a gift specifically. “Uh well, what if you were to make her something? She’d probably appreciate the time you put into it.”

“I’m not creative like her, though,” Shitty says with a sigh.

“Think on it. It’ll come to you,” Jack says. He knows his advice lacks lustre. He falters, silence falling between them.

“So,” Shitty says brightly. “Any reason for the call, Jack? I mean, as much as I fucking love to hear your voice, you’re usually not one for the phone.”

“Uh, yeah, I got Lardo’s invite,” Jack says.

“Oh, cool man, you coming?”

“Uh maybe,” Jack says, floundering for an excuse. “Not sure if I can yet, but…”

“Oh, cool,” Shitty says, not pressing him any further. He lets out a breath. “Just keep me in the loop. It’d be great to see you, but, y’know, no fucking pressure or anything.”

He hesitates. It’s not too late. He can still back out.

“I was wondering if you wanted to come over to lunch? In Providence?” Jack says, the words rushing out.

“Oh?” Shitty sounds surprised. “That’d be awesome, cool, when you thinking?”

“Uh, next week, your pick?”

“I’ll be down on Thursday,” Shitty says after a minute. “Cool, I’ll text you, bro, and let me know if you’re gonna make it to the party.”

“Will do,” Jack says, swallowing. The line clicks dead.

He can't shake the feeling that they're only inviting him out of obligation, even as he reminds himself that people won't invite you to their birthday if they don't want you there.

He wonders if Eric will be there,if Eric would _want_ him there. The thought gnaws at him, plays on a loop in his head, overwhelming his thoughts. Of course Eric doesn’t want him there, why would he? He’ll just ruin it, like he ruins everything.

He texts Eric.

 **Today** 09.30

Hey, are you going to Lardo’s party?

Yeah, why?

She asked me to come, but I don’t  
want to make you uncomfortable.

 

Oh! No, that’s fine. I don’t mind if you come.

You sure?

Yeah, that’s fine, thanks for asking!

 

Jack looks at Eric’s last text before dropping his cell with a groan, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. Everything is awkward, stilted. He doesn’t know how to talk to Eric anymore, where their boundaries are. God, he really wants to talk to Eric.

He sighs, pocketing his phone before getting to his feet, heading for the door.

 

-

 

Lunch is easier than Jack expects. Shitty’s waiting for him downtown at some pizza place he found when he was out trying to relearn the city.

"Sorry, uh, I didn't mean to be late, I just miss-timed how long it would take to walk here,” Jack says, slightly out of breath.

"Nah, brush, you're good, take a seat, I ordered some cheesy garlic bread to start with."

"Oh, awesome, thanks."

Jack grabs a menu, something to do with his hands, something to focus on.

"So," Shitty stars, seemingly unfazed by the lack of attention Jack is paying to him. "Law School sucks. Like majorly."

Jack blinks at him. "Huh, that... sucks?"

"Yeah," Shitty nods, taking a sip of his drink. " _Majorly."_

"I mean," Jack starts, putting down the menu on the table. "Maybe I've made this suggestion before but like... _quit?"_

Shitty blinks at him, pondering his words. "Nah, you've not suggested that, but I can't just _quit_. Not this close to the end, to my goal."

Jack pauses. Time to try a different route, to try and help, "Why did you want to go to Law School then? And don't just say your parents, you must've _wanted_ to go, to get through the application process."

Shitty frowns, then shrugs, "I guess, I wanna help people, that can't help themselves, that've been screwed over by the system, y'know? Our legal system is majorly screwed, and if I can alleviate that for even a few people? That'll be a good use of my dad's money."

"Well," Jack says. "Keep that in mind. Write it on your wall, man, just… when you're struggling, just keep, thinking about _why_ you're doing it, not focusing on the present, y'know?"

"That, Jacky boy, is some good advice," Shitty gives him a grin.

"Thanks," Jack grins back. "I've been getting tips from a professional again."

Once they get started, conversation between the two of them flows easily. He can tell why he and Shitty are good friends, or were at least. He's not really sure anymore, not sure if he's burned too many bridges; if he can go back.

"I'm sorry, about last time," Jack says after they get the bill.

"Huh?"

"When I yelled, I didn't mean to–"

"Oh that? Don't worry about it, bro, you were going through some things."

"Yeah, I was," Jack swallows. "I shouldn't have taken them out on you though."

"It's fine," Shitty says, getting to his feet. "Thanks, though. I’m, uh, I’m sorry too, I knew you were struggling, but I didn’t know how to help. I know I’m… a lot sometimes."

Jack copies the movement, and they head out to car park.

“I mean,” Jack says, struggling for the words to express how hopeless and lost he’d felt. “It was shit. It was so shit.”

“Yeah,”

“For everyone involved,” Jack says. “I shouldn’t have okay’ed you coming over so soon.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed,” Shitty says, clapping him on the shoulder, before coming to a halt in front of his car. "You want a ride? It's a long walk back."

"Sure," Jack grins.

Shitty drives a big, rundown pick up truck that's got a peeling maroon paint job. It's a manual, surprisingly. "You like my truck?"

"It's... something."

"Paid for it myself," Shitty boasts proudly as he puts it into gear.

It's evident after they pull away that it is, most certainly, the first manual car that Shitty has ever driven.

"You alright there?" Jack smirks after a particularly jerky change of gear.

"I'm managing," Shitty says, putting his food down and shifting up another gear. "I always forget that there's more to do when you have to slow down."

Jack laughs. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah, well, it's my car," he says. "I'll get there, eventually. Anyway, you decide if you’re coming up to Boston next week? The whole gang's gonna be there; they're excited to see you. I mean, if you want to come - I know it's a lot of pressure-"

"I'll be there," Jack interrupts. "I can't wait."

Shitty beams.

 

-

 

Jack nearly backs out three times on his way up to Lardo’s Party. The first time when he was leaving his apartment, a bottle of vodka in his bag, along with a joke birthday card about getting high. He hopes it's funny.

Then, he almost backed out when he got to the bus station and once he was on the bus Half way to Boston, he considered getting off and buying a ticket for the next bus back to Providence.

Shortly after the last minor freakout he got a text from Lardo.

 **Today** 16.37

What time are you getting into Boston?

5:20, so it'll be about quarter to  
six by the time I get to your place

I'm picking you up. Coffee?

Please

 

He pockets his phone again, gazing out the window as they trundle up to Boston.

Jack gets out with an overnight bag in tow, and Lardo's standing by the terminal, purple shades on which cover half her face and a cup of coffee in each hand.

"Hey, thanks for picking me up-"

"We've gotta swing by the airport, Ransom and Holster's flights are getting in..." Lardo checks her watch, turning on her heel and heading towards the exit. "Now. We need to grab some food on the way. They probably haven’t eaten a full meal in months."

Jack puts on speed to catch up with her; for someone so small she has a surprisingly fast stride. "What about you drive there and while you're at departures I'll grab some food and we'll meet back at the car?"

"Plan," Lardo says, as they reach Shitty's truck.

"Jesus," Jack says. "Please tell me you know how to drive this thing."

"Obviously," Lardo says. "Shitty's still learning. Once he stops clutch dumping it'll be fine."

Jack nods like he knows what she's talking about.

The journey to the airport goes quickly. Lardo's not much of a talker but she puts the radio on some oldies channel and the two of them sit, humming along with the melodies. The sun's beating down fierce on them, and Lardo's got one window wound down to let in some fresh air.

"You look... happy," Lardo says as they search for a spot in Central Parking.

"I am," Jack says. " Happier."

"I'm glad to hear it," Lardo says, before pursing her lips and pulling into a space. "Right, you're on McDonalds duty, I'll get Ransom and Holster then we'll meet back here."

"What should I get?"

"The biggest, cheapest meal you can find."

The head into the terminal, going opposite directions once their past the door. Jack can see the familiar McDonald’s sign, and beelines straight for it.

He buys an absurd amount of takeout, arms laden with bags by the time he heads back to the Truck. Lardo's already there along with Holster sitting shotgun and Ransom squished into the back. He recognizes them from their photos.

Holster lights up when he spots him, swinging open the passenger door and lurching out.

"Jack!" he launches himself at Jack, careful of the mountain of food. "Captainnnnnn, you are the best, is that food for us?"

Holster is bigger than Jack had anticipated, easily as tall as Tater.

"Help yourself," Jack says. Holster grabs two of the bags out of his arms.

" _Bruh!_ You better not be stealing all the burgers," Ransom hollers from the back. He's big guy too, about Jack's size. Jack grins at the Canadian accent.

"I got plenty of food," Jack says, sliding into the back. The backseat is cramped; way too small for two guys over six foot tall, Holster cranks his seat forward to give Jack an inch more of room.

"If you spill any of that food in my car," Lardo starts, voice warning.

"You'll what?" Holster asks, digging through his treasure. "This car's got, like, a million stains already, no way you'll notice one more."

"I'll know," Lardo says, drumming her fingers on the wheel as she pulls out, heading towards Shitty's place.

The ride passes quickly. Ransom and Holster are pretty decent at keeping the conversation flowing, and stop to remind him of old stories which he can't remember anymore.

Shitty's apartment is a pretty decent place, considering the state of his truck. There's abstract art on the walls and the coffee table is just a cardboard box that has the word 'books' scrawled in sharpie on the side of it.

Shitty's head pokes out from a doorway which Jack assumes must be the kitchen.

"Hey! I'll be right through, dudes, just helping Bitty finish up with the food."

They hear the vague rumblings of Eric's southern accent in response, but Jack can't make out a word. "Do you want a spare set of hands?"

"Nah, you guys sit, make yourselves at home! We're having dinner, then, later on, I think the frogs are gonna show, and as some of Lardo's art friends, turn it up like the kegsters we used to have!" Shitty grins. He's shirtless wearing just a pair of pink boxers.

Ransom and Holster whoop, falling down onto the sofa. Ransom cracks open a beer, handing it to Holster before opening his own. "C'mon then guys, let's play a game. Never have I ever?"

"Uh," Jack rubbed the back of his head. "That's probably not the best game for me, right now..."

There's a beat until Jack grins, then laughter trickles around the group. He drops down onto the couch next to Lardo, who's wearing a party hat with a beer in hand and her feet propped up on the... coffee book box.

"What about Trivial Pursuit?!" Ransom interjects excitedly.

" _NO!"_ the entire room calls out in unison, including Shitty who ducks his head back in just to yell.

"What's wrong with Trivial Pursuit?" Jack asks.

"See! Jack wants to play!" Ransom argues.

“Uh–” Jack says.

"Jack's can't remember the _hell_ that is playing you at trivial pursuit," Holster interrupts, turning to Jack. "It's terrible. As soon as it's his turn he keeps getting things right until he wins. No one else gets to play."

"Just because you guys are sore losers-" Ransom argues.

Lardo interrupts. "It's over Rans, let it die already."

Ransom clenches his jaw, before taking a long swig of beer, glowering at them all.

"So," Lardo says. "Trivial Pursuit's off the table. What about Pictionary?"

" _Nooooo_ ," Shitty groans from the kitchen. Jack turns to find him leaning back out the door.

"What's wrong with pictionary?"

"Lardo always goes super obscure and then gets _hella_ pissed when no one gets it."

"You're all heathens," Lardo says, gesturing widely at the group. "I just don't understand how you couldn't have got-"

"How about monopoly?"

It's Eric, interrupting from the kitchen this time. He comes out wearing an apron over his clothes, clutching a wooden spoon. Jack notices that Eric pointedly isn't looking in his direction.

"Yeah, sure monopoly's great if we want to bask in _capitalist hell_ in our free time," Shitty says, rolling his eyes. "What about Cards Against Humanity? It'll be quick at least, so we probably won't have to stop mid game when other people start arriving."

There's a murmur of consensus at that point. Eric heads back to the kitchen to quickly finish up the cooking while Shitty heads to his bedroom to grab the game.

Eric joins them just as Shitty's dealing out the cards, squeezing in between Ransom and Holster on some cushions on the floor.

Jack tries to avoid staring at him. They're broken up now - or on a break, he’s not sure - so he can’t look at Eric like he wants to. Jack tries to focus on his cards.

As it turns out, Jack is _not good_ at playing cards against humanity. He barely managed to get two of the black cards over the course of the game. Eric, conversely, wins; narrowly beating Holster's nine black cards with ten.

By the time they are finished with their game, people start to arrive for the party. Shitty pulled out the food, setting up a buffet and turning up the music.

The Samwell crew that turn up during dinner, (Dex, Nursey and Chowder - Lardo helpfully supplies) don't stop staring at him. Ever. He feels like he’s a zoo animal, constantly aware of his ‘friends’ constant stares, hot on his back.

It’s too much. He makes his excuses and steps outside to Shitty's balcony.

The balcony smells strongly of pot. Jack can see the butts of blunts on the ground. He settles himself down on Shitty's deck chair, staring out at the outskirts of Boston, trying to calm the thrumming in his chest.

He hears the balcony door slide again and Shitty settles himself down in the other cheap lawn chair.

They're quiet. For just a moment, but they're quiet, and Jack knows he's there. It helps.

"Hey, bro. You doing alright?"

Jack nods, then shakes his head. "Yeah, man, it's just... a lot. With everyone."

"You want to head home?" Shitty offers. "Not that I want you gone or anything, but I know these aren't your thing. If you need to–"

Jack shakes his head, "No, no I don't - I just... I just need to sit for a minute."

"Okay." Shitty says. "Okay. Do you want me to stay?"

"Yeah," Jack says, "That'd be good."

They sit there, neither of them moving for a while until Jack finally manages to speak.

"It's like... you know when you're dragged to a party by someone, and the party's with all of _their_ friends, but you don't know anyone," Jack says. "And then, everyone makes a lot of inside jokes and shit, because, obviously they all are friends. You know what I'm talking about?"

"Yeah, I follow," Shitty nods earnestly.

"It feels like that, but not only is everyone making inside jokes, they also expect me to participate in them," Jack sighs.

"No one expects anything from you, Jack. We're all just... excited - to see you again, excited that you're trying with us, you know? We thought we'd lost you."

"Yeah," Jack nods, because he gets that. Somedays it feels like he's lost himself.

But those days are becoming fewer and far between. He may not be his old self, but he can live with that. He can rebuild this. He's willing to try.

The music cranks up inside, and there's a loud cheer. Shitty's head strains around to see through the glass door. "Looks like Lardo's art friends are here. You sure you're gonna be alright at this?"

Jack nods, pushing himself up. "It'll be fun to see if the Harvard Bros can keep up."

"Whoaaaa," Shitty laughs. "You wound me, brother."

"I'm thinking I'll place bets with Lardo, man" Jack grins.

They both laugh as they open the door. As he'd expected, the party seems to have been pushed into full speed ahead, the lights are dimmed, the music's loud, and there's booze flying. Jack stops and gives Shitty a wry grin.

"I hope your neighbours aren't dicks," Jack says as they watch Holster stand up on the coffee table/book box trying to gather attention by shouting for the crowd to quiet.

"Guys, guys, _GUYS!"_ Holster screams over the crowd. "C'mon, be _quiet-_ "

Shitty visibly relaxes next to him.

"–Because it's time for _RING. OF. FIRE!"_

The crowd cheers, a group clumping around Holster as they set up the drinking game. Jack snickers, and heads to the kitchen to get himself a drink of water. It's gonna be a long night.

There's a couple making out on the kitchen counter, strikingly similar to Tater and his wife at the last party he was at. Jack doesn’t loiter in the kitchen.

It's like every college party that Jack's ever seen in movies before. There's so many people grinding and making out with each other and those who aren't seem to be drinking anything they can get their hands on.

The noise, the lights, the people. It's overwhelming.

He finds himself standing at the corner of the living room unsure of where to go and what to do when Eric slides up next to him, a red solo cup in hand.

"You doing alright there?" Eric asks.

"Yeah, I'm coping," Jack says. He wants to lean into Eric on instinct, this is the closest they've been since they broke up, and he can feel the heat of Eric's body next to his own. "It's just... weird.”

“Shitty’s parties always are,” Eric agrees. Jack makes a noise of frustration.

“I didn’t mean… it’s just especially... this," Jack gestures to the both of them, hoping Eric’ll pick up on what he’s saying. “Us. Not us. It’s… weird.”

"Yeah," Eric nods after a minute, voice distant."It's weird for me, too."

Jack clenches his fist, rather than putting his arm around Eric’s shoulders, and looks out to the party, decidedly not at Eric. "Are you... okay?"

"I, uh, I got offered a job back in Samwell, at this cafe baking for them. Just temporary really, but it's experience, y'know? I mean, I love baking, but I don't know if I want it to be my _job._ "

Jack doesn't know. Not really. He's always known what he wanted to do with himself, hockey’s been playing on a loop in his head since he was small. "It's, uh, good to take that time, figure out what you really want."

"Yeah," Eric says, enthusiastically. "So, how've you been?"

Jack shrugs, "Good, I mean, uh, I'm in therapy, so... that's helpful? I think?"

Eric nods, smiling brightly at him. God his smile is so kind, so genuine, it makes Jack catch his breath. "I'm glad. That you're doing better."

Jack wants to apologise again, but he's said it all before. Eric knows, he knows Eric knows, so instead he bites his lip. "Oh man, I didn't mention, I remembered something the other day," Jack starts.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, uh, it was keg party back in college, I remember Kent crashed it."

"Oh... is that all you remember from that party?"

"Yeah, like I said, it was just a flash, nothing really but hey, I'm still getting memories back, and recent ones," Jack tries, but Eric's gone cold in front of him. He takes a swig of his drink.

"That's... that's great. For you. I'm gonna go, I think Lardo said she needed me earlier, so..."

"Eric," Jack tries. He's not even sure what he's done.

"It's fine Jack, we'll talk later," Eric gives him a weak smile, before disappearing into the crowd, leaving Jack alone once more.

 

-

 

All in all, Lardo’s party is fairly uneventful. People drink, people dance, people make out. Eventually the cops come by to shut it down due to noise complaints. All in all, a good night.

Jack manages to get a couple hours sleep on the sofa but Shitty and Lardo haven't invested in any proper curtains or drapes yet for the living room so the light from the street streams in and the windows aren't particularly well sealed against the noise, meaning he stirs every time a particularly loud car goes past.

Holster's also sleeping in the living room with him, draped over the other sofa which seems particularly unfair on his 6"4 frame, but Holster certainly wasn't complaining and apparently sleeps like the dead.Jack's rolled him onto his side twice to try and stop him from snoring and he didn't even stir.

(It doesn't work; Holster just rolls back onto his back and begins to snore again.)

What this means is Jack really only gets to sleep at about five thirty when exhaustion becomes too much for him.

He's woken some time later by singing.

Jesus.

He blinks open one eye. It's light outside but that doesn't say much. The sun was already on its way up when he finally fell asleep. Jack grumbles, pulling his blanket over his head but the singing doesn't stop. It just grows louder and more exuberant.

He stays there for a minute, praying to whatever deity would listen that the singing would stop before he finally gives in and pulls himself off the sofa and in the direction of the kitchen.

Eric's moving around in his own world with light music on behind him as he sings his heart out, preparing a pot of coffee.

" _Standing in the light of your Halo, I got my Ha-_ AYYYYY" Eric squeaks as he turns and spots Jack standing in the doorway. He visibly jumps, clutching his chest. "Jack! Oh lord, you scared me-"

"It's _morning_ ," Jack snarls but there’s no heat to it, not when Eric had looked so happy when he’d come in. "It's morning and you're _singing_ and I was _asleep_ Eric."

Eric blinks at him.

"What? What is it?"

"I just..." Eric shakes his head, dropping Jack's gaze. "Nothing."

"No, really, what?" Jack says, stepping forward, reaching a hand out to grab Eric's shoulder. "What is it?"

Eric looks back at him, his eyes wide. They're so close, closer than Jack had realized when he stepped forward, and he's holding onto Eric's arm and he's not sure if he can let go. Everything boiling down to _them_.

"This song was important," Eric says, blinking owlishly at him as the music plays in the background. "That's all. It was important to us."

"Why?" Jack asks.

Eric licks his lips absently. A reflex really.

Oh.

"Oh," Jack flushes. "Sorry, I didn’t mean to push.”

“No it’s fine,” He steps back, steps away. “You want some breakfast? I’m gonna make eggs. I doubt anyone else will be up any time soon, so if we’re quiet…

Jack frowns, glancing around the kitchen; it’s a bomb site, glasses and empty cans everywhere. The rest of the apartment is much the same. “If you want, we could always sneak out; get breakfast at a diner and dodge on the cleaning side of things.”

He watches Eric carefully as he looks around the kitchen, concern evident, “But there’s such a mess-”

“Yeah, and I’m sure you’ve done your fair share of cleaning back at the Haus,” Jack grins, “Am I right?”

Eric pauses, before putting down the dish cloth he was holding. “C’mon then, before the smell of coffee wakes up Holster.”

 

-

 

They find a small diner relatively close to Shitty and Lardo’s place. It’s nothing special, filled with the usual early morning customers; construction workers and interns in cheap suits.

The slide into a booth. Jack picks up the menu, glancing down the list; there’s all day breakfasts. He puts down his menu, glancing up at Eric, who’s still deciding.

They both look a little worse for wear: Eric in his tank and short shorts, hair mussed up, Jack wearing the clothes he slept in. He has a split second of worry at being seen, being photographed, but quickly disregards it.

He doesn’t need to hide. He’s out. If the media want to write stories about him then let them, it doesn’t matter anymore.

The waitress comes around carrying a coffee pot and a check pad, giving them both a big smile.

“Good mornin’ boys, coffee?”

“Please,” Jack says, Eric nods, pushing out his cup with a smile.

“Can I get you guys anything to eat?” she asks, pouring them both a cup. Jack dumps a teaspoon of sugar in and a splash of milk, before doing the same for Eric.

“Uh,” Eric blinks at him, before shaking his head, glancing back to the waitress. “Oh, yeah, please, can I have the pancakes with bacon and maple syrup, please?”

“Certainly,” she says, scribbling something down on her pad, before turning to Jack. “And for you?”

“Uh, same, please.”

“Wonderful, she says, flipping back over her pad. “I’ll bring that out when it’s all ready.”

She walks away, leaving them alone together. Eric stifles a yawn, reaching for his coffee. “Lord I’m tired. That was one hell of a party.”

“Yeah, but then, y’know, Shitty was hosting,” Jack shrugs. “Lardo seems like she had a good time.”

“If there’s beer pong to play, Lardo will always have a good time, I’m just glad that no one ended up fighting,” Eric says, shaking his head. “I don’t know what’s up with them, but Nursey and Dex have started fighting something awful again, it’s like their back in 1st year.”

He frowns, “That’s, uh, the ginger one and the guy with the tattoo, yeah?”

“Yeah, that’s them.”

Jack hmms, “They’ll work it out. They’ll have to when they’re back on the ice together. Anyway, tell me more about this new job. Are you still staying in Shitty and Lardo’s?”

“Oh, no, the commute got too much for me, especially when I’ve got to be in at six to start the breads,” Eric takes a sip of his coffee. “Dex and Nursey are staying at their parent’s places this summer, so I’ve got the attic till they come back, uh, past that though, I guess I’ll just have to rent somewhere in Samwell untill I figure out what I’m doing.”

“You make enough to rent somewhere on your own?” Jack asks, his brow furrowing.

Eric blinks, “Oh, uh, yes, well. With the youtube money, as well, I’m doing fine.”

“Youtube?”

“Those videos I do? I post them online and make money off of the ads,” Eric says. “It’s not much per view, but it’s enough.”

“Oh, that’s… cool?”

Eric laughs, “I like it. The vlogging,” he shrugs. “I could probably live off of that if I wanted to.”

“Well why don’t you?” Jack asks.

“I don’t know, it’s not really a career now, is it?”

“It’s what you enjoy,” Jack offers. “If you can make enough money off of what you enjoy then why wouldn’t you do that?”

“You make it sound simple,” Eric says with a shake of his head, but he’s smiling slightly. “Anyway, what _I’m_ most worried about, is actually the Haus. It’s getting an inspection come September 6th, and I’m about ninety percent certain it’s gonna fail.”

“Still?” Jack asks. “Can you not do like… a bake sale?”

Eric laughs, “I give away too many pies for free around campus, no one would pay for them anymore.”

“I’d pay for your pies,” Jack says, petulantly.

The smile that Eric gives him is blinding. They’re startled out of their conversation by the arrival of food. Jack is surprisingly ravenous.

“So, Mama’s wanting to head up once I get settled somewhere new,” Eric says absently over his pancakes. “I think she just wants to decorate my apartment.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and it’s like, I was just home, Mama, _and_ I’ll be home for Thanksgiving, don’t waste the money on another flight up.”

“She wants to see you,” Jack shrugs, “Mine’s the same. She’s been trying to get on a plane back to Providence since the day she left.” It’s an exaggeration of sorts, more accurately she’s been trying to convince him to come visit, but it makes Eric laugh.

“I’m surprised that doctors orders managed to stop her from taking you home,” Eric laughs.

“I’m more surprised she didn’t try to physically fight someone,” Jack shakes his head.

The conversation between them is easier than Jack had thought it could be, flowing naturally, Eric not hesitating to fill the gaps with stories of his life, stories of their friends, whatever was on his mind.

Jack hears his cell ring, he gives Eric a sympathetic look, pausing their conversation as he picks up.

It’s Shitty.

“Hello?”

“Jack! Where are you?”

“Uh,” Jack glances at Eric, who’s making a _zipped_ motion over his mouth frantically, eyes wide. “Having breakfast?”

“Jack?”

“I didn’t want to wake anyone, “ he tries. “So we snuck out to a diner while you guys were all sleeping.”

“We?’” Shitty repeats. “Is Bitty there with you?”

Jack watches as Eric’s face falls onto the table, letting out out an exaggerated sigh. Jack stifles his laugh. “Uh, yeah, Bits is here.”

“Uh, alright,” Shitty says, hesitantly. “See you guys later then?”

Jack can hear the cries of _‘what the fuck!!!’; and ‘why don’t they have to clean?!’;_ in the background, before Shitty says, “Okay, bye” and the line goes dead.

Eric lifts up his head, frowning, “Did we just get out of cleaning?”

“I think we just got out of cleaning,” Jack says, incredulously.

Eric lets out a sparkling laugh, grinning from ear to ear, “Oh good _lord_ this is incredible.” Jack can’t help but smile back at him.

 

-

 

They eventually head back to the apartment, the diner starting to get uncomfortably busy as the brunch crew started to come in.

The walk back to Shitty’s was a short one, but by the time they get back the apartment is clean and tidy with a couple of trash bags by the door.

A part of him expects to get chirped to hell when they go in, for skipping out on the cleaning, but no one says a word, barely acknowledges them.

Jack and Eric share a look, before going to join the rest of the Samwell crew on the sofas. “So, what are y’all watching?” Eric asks, wedging himself between Holster and Lardo. Jack sits down on the floor, leaning back against the couch.

“The Montel Williams show,” Holster answers. He’s laid out on the other sofa, a wet rag on his forehead, legs hanging awkwardly over the arms.

“This is still on?” Jack asks, frowning. “I remember this being cancelled.”

“I mean, some shows will just rerun forever. I’m surprised that they don’t just have an entire channel dedicated to looping Friends yet,” Lardo says, reaching town to shift something in his hair.

They mostly watch in silence, everyone too sleepy and hungover to do anything other than veg out. Lardo braids Shitty’s hair, two tightly wound braids running down his scalp.

“Your hair’s too short now,” Lardo laments, pinning one of the braids in place.

“At least it didn’t all have to go,” Shitty says. “Not as bad as last time.”

“Hmmm.”

Jack glances around the group, frowning, “Hey, where’s… Ransom?”

“Sleeping,” Holster supplies, picking up and flipping over his wash rag. “He migrated through to Shitty’s room once we were done cleaning and passed out. The boy can’t handle his booze anymore.”

“Like you’re any better, adulthood’s made you all weak,” Lardo snipes. “Holster you were out drunk by _Nursey_ last night.”

“Hey,” Nursey pipes up from the beanbag that Jack had thought he’d been asleep on. He glowers at them all indignant. “Just because I got too drunk a couple times when I was a freshman doesn’t mean I’m a lightweight.”

“No the fact I had to fish you out of a bush two weeks ago does,” Dex retorts.

“I _fell_ , that’s just me being clumsy.”

“You’d had four beers and sung ‘ _American Pie’_ all the way home,” Dex says dryly, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

The group is surprisingly comfortable, chirping with each other freely as the TV drones on in the background. Jack relaxes into it, letting the chatter wash over him.

It’s fun.

He has fun.

 

-

 

They eventually all go their separate ways, adult responsibilities getting in the way. Jack is one of the last to leave, just himself, Eric, Shitty and Lardo left, sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee in hand.

“This was fun,” Jack says, breaking the quiet. “I enjoyed myself.”

“I’m glad,” Shitty says, beaming.

“I can see why they were all my friends,” Jack says. “I didn’t get it immediately, but… yeah, I can see it.”


	8. Chapter 8

The next week passes with a sleepy drag. Jack starts waking up later, switches back to full-fat yoghurt. He takes a night class in photography for beginners, where only one of the students recognizes him. He spots the way her eyes track him across the room, lighting up. He gives her a slightly panicked look the first night when he realizes that she knows him, but she mimes zipping her lips and otherwise doesn’t bother him.

The class gives him a reason to leave his house that’s not exercise related. It’s different; new. He’s not sure if he’ll keep it up when the season starts again, but in the meantime, it’s something to occupy his time.

He gets a call from Georgia on his way back from class one night. He’s still walking everywhere He’s taken a couple of driving lessons and it’s not as hard as he thought it would be, but he’s nowhere near comfortable getting behind the wheel alone yet.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Jack, how are you?”

“Uh, fine, just on my way home.” he frowns. It’s unusual for Georgia to call him, she mostly texts him if it’s about personal stuff. “Is everything ok?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing serious,” she says. Jack relaxes. “Seth Offill has been back in touch with us.”

“Oh,” Jack says flatly, tensing back up. “Again?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry to bother you with it, I just…” Georgia sighs, “I feel for the kid. He really wants to speak to you. He’s called three times, wanted to know if he could write you a letter.”

Jack pulls out his keys from his pocket as he reaches the outside door of his apartment building. He sighs, “He really seems torn up?”

“Yeah,” Georgia says and then she hesitates for a beat. “His team approached us about a trade; they say he’s a liability to them now. We turned them down, but, I don’t know, I just thought I’d pass it along. Let you decide.”

“Oh.” Jack can’t shake the distrust deep in his gut. It’s perhaps unfair, but he feels that maybe Seth was only in touch with them to save his own career.

“Seth doesn’t know that he might be traded, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Georgia tells him. “To be honest, I don’t think they’ll end up trading him; they’ll get an awful deal at this point and he’s not really a bad player, but, still, I kinda feel for him.”

He’s not sure why he agrees, not really, but before he knows it he’s saying to Georgia, “Give the kid my number, I’ll let you know after I meet him.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “I’m sure. Talk to you soon.”

“Sure,” Georgia says, then the line goes dead.

The first thing he does when he steps inside is brew a cup of green tea. He’s got some leftover lasagne in the fridge that he takes out, adding a splash of milk before putting it in the microwave. He hops up on the counter while he waits and pulls out his phone again. He looks at the number Georgia texted him and does nothing. He is surprised to find that he’s perversely sympathetic to Offill’s situation; a talented player with a career maybe cut short by one mistake hits him close to home. In the end, though, it’s curiosity about what exactly brought him to this point that makes him copy the number into a new text.

 **Today** 15.33

Hey, it’s Jack Zimmermann

Uh, hi?

My manager got in touch, said you  
wanted to speak to me. If you want,  
we could meet up? The second week  
of august would be good for me.

Yeah, that’d be great! Where?

I’ll be in touch closer to the time.

 

Jack locks his phone and leaves it on the counter as he takes a paper towel and his dinner to the table. It’s a little dry, not as good re-heated as it was fresh, but it’s filling and tasty enough.

His mind is still mulling over his call with Georgia and his texts with Seth as he tries later to watch a documentary updating him on the bees. The kid seems so eager, so excited. It feels like a heavy weight to carry alone.

He texts Eric. He wants to talk to someone about Seth. More specifically, he wants to talk to Eric, to hear his opinion. Eric’s life was just as uprooted by the accident as his own.

 **Today** 15.57

Hey, can we talk?

Sure, you want me to call?

No, text is fine, thanks

So Georgia phoned today

And?

Seth Offill’s been in touch with her again.  
I said I’d talk to him.

 

Jack stares at the cell phone screen, watching the three grey dots bounce. He takes a deep breath, trying not to overanalyze the long pause. His phone vibrates in his hand.

 **Today** 16.06

Why?

He wants to apologise; George  
passed on the message for him.

He feels pretty torn up about it all.

Well, good

He’s just a kid

Sorry, that was petty

Are you really ok with seeing him?, I mean…

Yeah, actually, I think I am.

 

Jack hesitates, frowning at the screen, waiting on the response from Eric. He watches as the series of gray dots bounce along his screen then disappear. His thumbs are hovering over the keyboard when a message comes through at last.

 **Today** 16.04

Sorry, it’s just hard when I can  
still remember that last swing he took.

But I guess it’ll be good to get closure on this.

Thanks, Bitty

 

-

 

Jack’s mom’s birthday somehow sneaks up on him, July always moves faster than expected in the lull of the off season. He toys with the idea of arranging flowers and maybe spending extra on shipping for a present so it arrives on time, but it seems too impersonal.

So he hops on a bus to Boston and catches a straight flight to Montreal. The last minute ticket costs him a small fortune, but he has a large fortune now; he should spend it. It’s his money, even if he doesn’t remember earning it.

The plane journey is short and customs is mercifully quick. The bus he gets from the airport into the city is not. It trundles along at a snail’s pace, sometimes being taken over by pedestrians as they move through the center of town. He gets off near a shop his mother used to love and is thankful to find it still there.

He picks out a silk pashmina in a pale lilac that he hopes she’ll like. He also grabs some hand cream, as well as a bunch of flowers before heading outside to hail a cab.

It’s strange, being back in his hometown. He thought it would be delightfully familiar, comfortable and easy to recall. It is, in a way, but it doesn’t feel like going home.

Jack requests the driver drop him off up the block a little so his mom doesn't hear the car. He pays and thanks him before he steps out onto the curb, sunlight streaming down onto his face. The houses are mostly behind fences and hedges, hidden out of sight; it’s a rich neighbourhood. He doesn’t see another soul on his walk back to his parents' house.

His mom and dad don’t have anything too crazy blocking their house, the tabloids and media mostly ignored them now in their old age and happily married bliss. He unlatches the gate and walks through the garden.The front door is blue now, not the red of his memories. He knocks loudly.

Nothing happens. Worry starts to churn in his gut; he should’ve contacted his dad, made sure that they’d be home. He knocks again. There’s silence, then he can hear shuffling, and his mom appears at the door, a dressing gown wrapped around herself, hair mussed up.

“Oh, lord,” she says. “Jack!”

“Maybe I should’ve called.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, letting out a giggle as she tightens her bathrobe. Jack laughs, running a hand over his face as he feels the blood rush to his cheeks. His mom turns her head over her shoulder. “Robert! Go get changed!”

“ _Quoi?”_

“Papa! Put some clothes on,” Jack yells in french, making his mother laugh harder.

His mom leans in, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. “Go, put the kettle on, I’ll get ready.”

He heads through the house towards the kitchen. The living room’s the same as he can remember, other than some of the photos on the wall, but once he steps into the kitchen it’s clear there’s been some redecorating.

His parents were never really for cooking, both of them viewing it a chore, not a pleasure. His dad could make stir-frys a decent salad, maybe a casserole if he tried and his Mom was alright with pasta, but the kitchen was never really a highlight of the house. Now, though, the kitchen looks like something from Eric’s magazines with sleek granite countertops and a six-burner gas stove, not the shitty electric disaster of a contraption that Jack can remember.

He puts on a pot of coffee, sitting down at the unfamiliar table and waiting until his father appears in his sweatpants and an old Pens training T-shirt. His hair’s still damp and Jack can hear the shower running upstairs.

His father actually looks slightly ashamed of himself, for once, ducking Jack’s gaze. Jack sighs, taking a sip of his coffee. “I made a new pot.”

“It’s, uh, good to see you?” Bob tries, before stifling a laugh, as he prepares himself a coffee. Jack rolls his eyes.

“You two are ridiculous.”

“Well, son, your mother and I love each other very much, so-“

Jack sticks his hands over his ears in a monkish display of what he used to do when he was a teenager. “Please stop.”

His dad laughs again, sitting down across from him at the table. Their mugs match, not like the muddled up the old set they used to have. His dad clears his throat. “So, uh, what do you think of the new kitchen?”

Jack glances around, “I think it looks shiny.”

“Yeah, was just finished in February there, you’ve not had a chance to see it yet, really.”

“Huh,” Jack says. “I mean, looks good. Top of the line and all that.”

His dad shrugs, “We’ve redecorated every other room in this house a bunch of times, felt like time to finally do up the kitchen.”

Jack shrugs, “I guess so.”

It’s weird, looking around the kitchen. They’d ripped up everything, new floors, new paint, new counters. The dent in the doorframe from his hockey stick when he was twelve is long gone, the wood repaired or replaced - Jack’s not even sure. The missing handle off one of the cupboards is no longer missing, the gouge in the linoleum where his dad tried to move the fridge and ripped up half the floor is long gone and smoothed over. That kitchen had been weirdly constant in Jack’s life.

“Odd, eh?” His dad says. “That kitchen must’ve been, oh I’d say eighteen years old. Could’ve bought it’s own drinks. “

“Some places,” Jack adds.

There’s a break in conversation, a lull, but it’s not as smothering as it used to be. “Seth Offill has reached out. He wants to apologize.”

“Oh,” his dad says, surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah, he seems pretty upset.”

“Well,” his dad’s face hardens. “I mean, the kid’s careers in the drain right now, with the backlash. Makes sense for him to reach out.”

“Georgia doesn’t think that’s why he’s doing it,” Jack offers, before shrugging his shoulders. “I dunno, even if it is, it’d be nice to know what went down that day.”

That’s what it comes down to for Jack. Seth might have said some awful stuff, might not have, Jack doesn’t know the ins and outs of his accident, but that’s exactly what it was. An accident.

His dad is telling him a story about one of the fights he got into on the ice, the one that deviated his septum that makes him snore like a fog-horn even after the surgery to fix it, when his mom appears, dressed and looking impeccably. She frowns at his dad.

“Robert, you were meant to get _dressed.”_

His dad frowns, “Uh, I _am_ dressed?”

“ _Dressed_ -dressed, not sweatpants. C’mon, you cannot leave the house like that.”

“We’re leaving the house?”

“Please, just go get changed,” she sighs, dragging a hand through her hair as she walks to the coffee pot, she’s wearing heels, putting her an inch or two higher than Jack and his father.

His dad sighs, before chugging the rest of his coffee and dashing up the stairs. His mom kisses the top of his head before sitting down in the recently vacated chair.

“Oh!” he says, suddenly, hopping to his feet. “I got you a present,” he leans in to kiss her cheek. “Happy Birthday!”

He pulls the bunch of flowers out from the counter where he’d left them and grabs the pashmina from his duffle bag. The woman in the shop had wrapped it in tissue paper for him, which he’s thankful for considering how rumpled and grubby the paper’s got on his short journey.

“Oh, Jack, you shouldn’t have,” she says, taking a sniff of the flowers, before placing them on the table and grabbing the present from him with the eagerness of a child on Christmas. Jack laughs, sitting back down across from her as she pulls off the pink tissue, before pulling out the shimmering shall.

“Oh, honey,” she says, lifting it up in front of her. “This is gorgeous.”

“You like it?”

“I love it,” she smiles widely at him. “Thank you. And thank you for coming up, I’m so happy to see you.”

“Maybe next time I won’t go down the whole ‘surprise’ route though, eh?”

“Maybe not,” she laughs, brightly, before putting the pashmina down and leaning over the table to hug him.

 

-

 

They go out for a late lunch to a fancy french restaurant that his mother loves, that he and his dad put up with. His mother orders snails for her starter while he tries to find the most basic chicken dish on the menu.

They share a bottle of wine between them, a thick red that Jack is surprised to find he likes. It goes down smoother than he would think, not catching in his throat.

“So,” his mom says after the appetisers have been served. “How are you doing really? Down in Providence.”

“It’s good, I’m getting the lay of the city a bit more now,” he says, before pausing to take a bite of his duck salad. “I’m taking photography classes again.”

“Oh yeah, your mother said that,” his dad adds. “How are they going?”

Jack pauses, thinking back. It’s hard in everything, to not compare himself to where he was, to what he used to know. “I’m getting the hang of it. I enjoy it, something to do since it’s the off season right now.”

“Hobbies are good,” his mother agrees. “Your father was always going stir-crazy over the break, it used to drive me nuts.”

His dad rolls his eyes and Jack snorts.

“Oh, also, Georgia called,” Jack says, “Uh, she wants me to meet with Seth Offill. Y’know, the kid who…”

He trails off, he doesn’t need to finish the sentence, his mom knows who he’s talking about.

“Hm?” She says, her tone betraying none of her feelings, but her face has gone unnaturally still.

“Yeah, George putting him touch with me, he wants to apologize, for what went down. She think’s he’s going through some stuff,” Jack says, pushing the pan off the heat so he can talk more freely. “He’s called a couple times. Really wants to talk to me, apparently.”

“Are you alright with that?” She asks, cutting right to the point.

“I’m not sure,” Jack says slowly. “But I’m meeting him anyway. I wanna hear what happened.”

“Well then,” his mom says, slightly haughtily. “Good plan.”

They finish their appetisers, sipping their wine until their plates are cleared. Jack catches himself glancing around the restaurant, checking for cameras, for nosy fans, but he doesn’t see any phones pointed in their direction for once, which loosens the knot in his gut ever so slightly.

“So,” his mother says, once they’re onto desserts. “Your father and I are thinking of selling the house.”

It blindsides him, really.

“Eh?” Jack blinks.

“The house,” she repeats. “Our house. We’re thinking of moving.”

“Moving?”

“Moving,” his dad parrots back to him, not explaining anything further.

“Wh-What?” Jack’s confounded by this, “You’re going to _move_?”

“Well,” His mom says, her tone gentle, “We’re thinking about it. It’s on the cards.”

“Is this why you re-did the kitchen?”

“Partly,” she says. “Also that kitchen was ancient, we needed a new one.”

He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “But, you can’t _move_. Where would you even move to?”

His mom sighs, “We’ve lived in Montreal for a lot longer than originally planned. We were thinking about moving once you hit high school, but then with hockey and life, we just… stayed.”

It hits him like a hammer. They stayed for him, to give him stability, to let him live his dream, or what was his dream at the time. “Oh,” he says quietly.

“Well,” his dad clears his throat, “We’re thinking of moving to Long Island, to be with Alicia’s mother.”

“Grandma?”

“Yes, she’s getting frail and it would be good to be there, to look after her.”

Jack’s grandmother was his only living grandparent. His dad’s parents had died before Jack was born and his maternal grandfather died when he was a kid.

“Oh, that makes sense,” he says. God, she must be getting old now. “How’s she doing?”

“Good,” Alicia says. “She tapes all your games, makes sure to watch them. You should’ve heard her curse after that fight of yours.”

Jack laughs, “Oh, I can imagine.” His grandma had always been the one to teach him the bad words as a child.

His dad eyes him warily. “Are you okay with it? I mean, if you’re not, there’s no reason we can’t hold onto the house for a while longer-“

“It’s fine,” Jack says. He sounds slightly forced, but he means it. It’s okay. It’s not his home anymore, he doesn’t think of it with the same homesick ache from when he first woke up in that hospital bed. “It’s good, this way you’ll be closer to Providence so I can visit more.”

“That’ll be nice,” his mother beams at him. “I’m glad you’re okay with this.”

“Yeah,” Jack swallows. “Me too.”

 

-

 

They go home after their meal and another bottle of wine. Jack vetoing the idea of a bar, too many people with cameras, too much press. He’s still in the news, still so much gossip around his name after everything that’s happened in the past year.

He hates it, still. He’s gotten more experienced in dealing with it, ducking the paparazzi and avoiding the camera phones but he’s not about to flaunt himself, not when there're so many people that would pay for a picture of him.

“You got any plans for your birthday, kiddo?” his dad asks once they’re squished into a cab, his mother sitting shotgun, and him and his dad in the back of a car that was certainly not built for space.

Jack shrugs. “Nothing much planned, probably just a rest day, order some terrible food, watch some movies.”

“No parties then?”

“No parties, dad,” Jack rolls his eyes. “I mean, twenty-seven though. It’s a big one. Feels like just yesterday I was turning eighteen.”

His dad snorts out loud, hand coming up quickly to cover his mouth. Jack gives him a rueful grin.

The taxi pulls up outside of his parent’s house.He can feel the hum of the wine coursing through him, limbs loose and smile wide, as he gets out. “I’m glad I came up.”

“I’m glad,too,” His mother says, looping an arm around his shoulders and pressing a kiss on his cheek. She’s slightly off balance in her heels, so she doesn’t let go of his shoulder, leaning on him heavily, sending them both wobbling towards the edge of the path.

“ _Crisse_ ,” He hears his dad curse behind them, laughing slightly. “Come on you two, time to go to bed I think.”

His dad worms his way between them, looping an arm around both their waists and guiding them towards the house.

He unlocks the door quickly, leaving Jack to stand on his own two feet again. He’s okay, not drunk, not really, definitely not out of control, just a little loose, a little from the alcohol and a little tired from traveling all morning.

“I’m exhausted,” Jack says His dad pauses in the doorway, before sighing, putting one arm around the back of his mother’s knees and hoisting her up. Jack winces.

“Dad, your back!”

“I’m fine,” he says, turning sideways to lift Alicia up the stairs. She’s smiling widely at him, arms looped around his neck. His dad pauses, giving her a brief kiss, before starting on the staircase.

They’re so in love, after all these years. It’s inspiring.

“You going to bed, son?” his dad calls once he reaches the landing.

“Yeah, I’ll just,” Jack waves his hand, glancing around the house. “I’ll lock up and switch off the lights.”

“Okay, see you in the morning, kiddo.”

“See you guys in the morning. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Jack still hears them giggling along the hallway once they’re out of sight. He locks the front and back doors before pouring himself a glass of water in the kitchen, getting ice from the new ice dispenser in the fancy, unfamiliar fridge before he heads upstairs to his old bedroom.

The bedroom is like stepping into a time machine, still with his childhood pictures taped up on the walls, and a Penguins’ bedding set spread out on his twin mattress.

He sits down on his bed, toeing off his shoes before pulling off his jeans and hitting the light switch and tucking himself under the sheets, falling asleep almost instantly.

 

-

 

He sleeps late the next morning, long past the sun rising and the birds chirping, right until his dad is knocking on his door, checking when his flight is.

He drags himself out of bed, heading to the chest of drawers to try and find some sweatpants. Everything in there is from when he was sixteen or seventeen, when he had just turned lean and scrawny from the sudden growth spurt. Jack eventually pulls out the biggest pair of tracksuit bottoms and yanks them on, before heading down stairs. His mother and father are in the kitchen, newspaper folded up and an arrangement of coffee, pastries and fruit on the table.

“Morning, Jack,” his dad says, as Jack grabs a mug from the mug rack.

“Morning,” he grunts, before sitting down on the empty chair between his dad and his mother, pulling over the coffee pot to himself, pouring out a mug before reaching for the cream and sugar.

“How long till your flight?” His dad asks.

“Three or four hours,” Jack says, grabbing a croissant. “I better get a move on, to be honest.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Thanks,” Jack smiles.

His mom reaches over and squeezes his hand. She’s always been quiet in the mornings, much more so than himself and his dad.

Jack and his dad talk a bit about the upcoming season, the trades and such that had taken place already, until it’s time for him to get showered and get his stuff.

His mom pulls him into a hug before he steps into the car, duffel thrown over his shoulder.

“Next time, you’ve got to stay for longer,” she says, tucking her chin over his shoulder. He holds her tightly.

“Promise,” he presses a kiss to her cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” she lets go of him.

He drops his bag into the backseat before pulling open the car door and sitting down. His dad’s already waiting, keys in the engine.

They wave to his mother as he backs out of the drive, taking off down the suburban streets and heading around the outskirts of town, avoiding the centre.

“Do you hear much from Eric?” his dad asks after the house is out of sight.

Jack can tell that the question’s been lurking since Jack showed up the day before. His dad’s been dying to ask, words slightly too quick; not aloof like he’s trying for.

“We text,” Jack shrugs, “I saw him a week or so ago.”

Jack can tell his dad is dying inside, trying not to push too far. Jack grins.

“Yeah? So you’re… friends?”

“We’re something,” Jack says, purposefully vague. “I’m happy.”

His dad asks nothing further, but Jack can see the frustration across his face. It makes him grin. He’s not lying either, since the party, the texts, he and Bitty, it doesn’t feel like they’re not _nothing_ anymore.

They’re something.

 

-

 

**Bitty <3**

**Today** 14.22

Hey! We’re having a BBQ at  
the Haus on the 5th, you in?

Uh, sure? Do I need to bring anything?

Just yourself. Maybe a sleeping bag,

Can’t wait!

 

-

 

July bleeds into August quicker than he expects, the summer heat starting to fade, even slightly. He meets up with Shitty and Lardo a couple of times, has them over for dinner. He texts Eric, they call once, Eric talking Jack through how exactly to make Duck Confit when he hosts a dinner party, some of the guys from the team coming around to his place.

Jack misses Eric. He wonders if Eric misses him.

His birthday is a quiet solitary affair; Tater and Leanne are in Russia visiting Tater’s parents before Leanne gets too big to fly. Shitty and Lardo are too busy to come down since it’s on a Thursday. He doesn’t mind, really, instead he enjoys the day of solitude, doesn’t get changed out of his sweatpants and orders food in. Jack spends the evening catching up with some of Grey’s Anatomy.

He gets some presents in the mail; from Tater there’s an official Falconer’s jersey with the name ‘Zimmboni’ printed across the back, which makes him laugh. His mom sends him down some new linens, along with a soft throw that probably cost an obscene amount of money. His mom has expensive taste.

Surprisingly, there’s another box from Amazon. He opens it up to find something gift wrapped. He picks up the note on the packing slip.

_Jack,_

_Hope you’re having a great birthday. I thought, since you’re getting back into photography, you might appreciate this._

_See you Saturday,_

_Bitty_

He peels off the wrapping paper and finds a box with a new camera lens inside. Jack sits back, holding the box in his hands. It is kind of perfect, he’d actually been looking at a similar lens just a few days earlier.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, shooting off a text to Eric. 

 **Today** 09.34

I got your gift; you shouldn’t have!

Do you like it? :/

Yes! It’s fantastic, it must’ve cost a fortune  
though, and I know your saving…

As long as you like it, Jack :)

I love it :) see you Saturday

See you then

 

 

-

 

He keeps up his driving lessons, piling in two or three a week until his instructor tells him that he’s ready to book his test.

“Oh, uh, I’ve already got my licence,” Jack says, pulling the car up next to his house. “I, uh, forgot how to drive.”

His instructor frowns at him, brows furrowing together, “You… _forgot?_ ”

“Yeah. You’ve been great, though, I think I’ve finally got the hang of it,” Jack gives him a grin. “Really, you’ve been fantastic. I’d recommend you to any of my friends but they’ve all already got their licences.”

“Uh,” the driving instructor says, still looking confused.

Jack pushes open the car door, resisting the urge to elaborate or explain. “Thanks again.”

And with that, he leaves, certain that he’s given the instructor a story he’ll be telling for many years down the line.

 

-

 

He drives up to Samwell early on the morning of the 5th, a cooler full of beer and venison sausages that he got from the butcher in the trunk of his car. The drive is short, especially once he gets onto the highway. He plugs the address into his GPS for the Haus and follows the directions once he’s off the I-95.

Samwell’s relatively small, built along a river with quaint, historic looking buildings. He can recognize some of it from the photos of his Mom during college, particularly one of the bridges he spots.

He eventually pulls up in front of a run-down house, parking his car up on the curb and getting out, frowning.

There’s a sofa lying under a tree on the grass and a tire lying abandoned on the other side of the garden. There’s also a barbeque smoking away.

“Hey! Jack! It’s good to see your beautiful face,” Shitty calls as he pushes open the front door, grinning at him. Jack laughs, opening his arms wide as Shitty launches himself for a hug. “I got you a gift, but, I fucking forgot it, so you’ll have to wait till the next time I come down before I can give it to you, sorry man.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to-”

“Brah, don’t even. Anyway, uh, if you want, you could park your car around back?”

“There’s an around back here?” Jack frowns, glancing at the fence that closely borders the sides of the house.

“Oh, yeah. You gotta drive to the end of the street, take a right, then a right again, you’ll see my truck parked on the grass.”

“Oh, alright, just hold up,” Jack says, clicking his key to unlock the car and heading around to the trunk of his car. He opens it up and pulls out the cooler. “Here, you take this,” Jack hefts it over and. Shitty sags under the weight.

“Whoa, Jacky, not all of us are athletes nowadays,” Shitty laughs, putting the cooler down on the ground quickly to grab the handles properly.

“Oh, sorry,” Jack scratched the back of his neck, “I didn’t mean-”

“Nah, it’s fine, I got it. You go park, I’ll see you inside.”

Jack does as Shitty tells him to, driving the car around the street and then pulling it up next to Shitty and Lardo’s truck.He heads up the back porch and is assaulted with the smell of baking when he opens the door.

It’s familiar; the house, the smell, the walls. It’s like the edges of a memory he can’t quite grasp, almost deja vu except he knows for sure that he’s been here before. He looks around the hallways, reaching out to touch one banister that wobbles against his touch.

“Hello?” he calls into the house.

“Oh, hey!” Eric appears, an apron tied around his waist and flour in his hair. Jack’s mouth goes dry and Eric smiles at him, brightly, and steps forward. “Hi. Jack.”

“Eric,” Jack swallows. The way the sun’s hitting his hair makes it look golden. “Hey.”

There’s an awkward pause where Jack holds out a fist. Eric rolls his eyes at him, and steps forward, pulling him into a fierce hug. Jack wraps his arms around his shoulders, holding him tightly.

“I missed you,” Eric says against his shoulder, squeezing him tighter. They’re clinging to each other, afraid to let go, to break the spell.

“I missed you too, Bits,” Jack says, leanings face against Eric’s head, his nose filling with the scene of Eric’s shampoo. He’s no idea how long they stand like that, together, until the door shoves open and Shitty appears. They jump apart.

“Oh, shit, sorry, guys. I mean, go back to-”

“Just saying hi,” Eric says, briskly. “I’ve gotta finish up in the kitchen, so if you wanna start up the coals I’ll be out soon.”

“Oh, I’ve got something for you,” Jack says, suddenly remembering the rhubarb in the cooler. He heads out to the front yard, rushing down the porch steps to his cooler that Shitty had left in the middle of the path. He opens it up, pulling out a bunch of rhubarb.

Eric’s standing at the top of the porch, frowning at him, arms folded across his chest.

“It’s Rhubarb,” Jack explains. “My mom sent it for you! She’s grown too much this season apparently, thought you could use it in a pie.”

Eric laughs, “Oh, lord, really? Well, I’ll find something to do with it. Thanks for bringing it down.”

“It’s no problem,” Jack says, holding it out at arm's length. Eric takes it, giving him a smile before heading back into the Haus.

Shitty raises an eyebrow at him from where he’s starting up the grill.

“What?”

“Smooth.”

“Fuck off,” Jack laughs, pulling Shitty under his arm, ruffling his hair. Shitty laughs, digging an elbow into his side, skittering away. He opens back up the cooler and pulls out a beer.

“You want one?”

“Uh, yeah, I’ll have one, thanks,” Jack says, accepting the can. The sit down on the sofa which has definitely seen better days.

“So where’s all the… tadpoles? Did I get that right?”

“Oh, it was just Tango staying here over the summer with Bits and he’s gone home for a week so we’ve got the Haus to ourselves, like old times.”

“Who’s coming up?”

“Just Lardo, she’s on her way.”

“Awesome,” Jack says, Music starts blaring out of one of the windows. Jack glances to find Eric positioning a radio on the window ledge. He gives him another smile.

Shitty sprawls out across the couch, legs up on the arm, tapping his toes along in time to the beat. “So, how’s the off season treating you?”

“Good,” Jack says, dropping half a dozen sausages on the BBQ grill. “Yeah, I’ve gotten back into photography. I’m taking a night class.”

“Oh, that’s sick bro! I’m thinking about taking a class in Spanish.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, then I’d be able to gossip with my sister-in-law about my dad at the snooty parties that we have to attend and no one would know what we were talking about.”

“Well,” Jack says, lifting Shitty’s legs and sliding under them. “Statistically a lot of people probably would, but your dad wouldn’t.”

“Well, he’s the only one that matters,” Shitty says, stretching his legs, muscles tensing. “Fuck it’s hot today.”

He sits up, still half draped over Jack’s lap, and pulls his shirt halfway over his head before he freezes, dropping it back down, “Uh-”

“It’s fine, Shits. Take your shirt off.”

“I don’t have to, y’know, if you don’t want me to.”

“Shitty, just take your damn shirt off.”

“But bro-

“Well, this is a conversation I never thought I’d see.”

“Lardo!” Shitty says, brightening as he gets to his feet, pulling her into a hug. Jack laughs.

“You saw her this morning.”

She lets go of Shitty and pulls him into a tight hug. She’s so tiny, barely reaching his shoulder. “Aw, did you miss me, too, Jack?”

“A bit,” he says, ruffling her hair as she pulls away.

“Well,” She says with a gring, pulling her rucksack down from her shoulder. “Guess what I brought?”

“Pot?” asks Shitty.

“Marshmallows! I mean, also pot, but let’s be honest, the marshmallows are clearly the winner here.”

Jack grins, “Oh man, do we have Graham crackers? Can we make s’mores?”

“ _Do we have Graham crackers_ ,” Eric repeats, shaking his head as he comes down the porch steps, three plates of pie in balanced in his hands and a roll of paper towels under one arm. “In my Haus? Really?”

He’s wearing possibly the shortest shorts that Jack has ever seen. He can feel himself flushing, blood rushing to his cheeks. He clears his throat, deliberately looking away.

“Here, you and Shits can share a plate,” Eric says, handing him the one with two slices on it. “I couldn’t carry four.”

“Oh, no problem,” Jack says, swallowing hard, deliberately keeping his eyes trained on Eric’s face. It doesn’t really help, not with the skimpy tank top he’s wearing, tightly muscled shoulders on show.

“Nice haircut, Bits,” Lardo says. “Looking _fresh_.”

“Yeah,” Eric grins, then runs a hand through his hair; over the buzzed short back and sides. “It was getting a bit out of hand, especially in the heat of the kitchen.”

“Yeah,” Jack swallows, “It looks great.”

“Thanks,” Eric gives him a big smile. “Does anyone need a beer?”

There’s a chorus of no, then Eric wanders over to the cooler to grab a can. Shitty leans close into Jack’s ear.

“ _Smooth_ ,” Shitty laughs.

“Shut _up!”_ Jack elbows him, just as Bitty comes back, causing Shitty to laugh harder.

Eric just rolls his eyes at them both. “Y’all are _children.”_

“God, Bits,” Lardo says, groaning around a mouthful of pie. “This is _delicious.”_

“Oh wait,” Jack says, getting back to his feet, pushing the plate of pie onto Shitty. “I forgot all my stuff in the car. Where am I sleeping?”

“Oh,” Eric says, jumping to his feet. “Uh, yeah, you can either crash on the bunks in the attic with me, or else sleep on the couch in the living room; Shitty and Lardo got Chowder’s room, and Whisky locked his door before he went home for summer.”

“Oh, uh, I’ll just crash with you then. If you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” Eric says. “I’ll show you. Shitty, can you get the sausages going?”

Shitty salutes his affirmative.

Jack runs through the house grabs his duffel from the back seat of his car and a small, bundled up sleeping bag Eric’s waiting for him inside.

“Attic’s this way,” Eric says, leading Jack up the rickety, creaking staircase.

“Man, this place is weird,” Jack says, glancing around the top landing. “Familiar,” he adds, when Eric shoots him a questioning look.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I dunno, it’s just like a... _feeling._ Nothing concrete. I’ve not had anything concrete in a while,” Jack shakes his head. “It’s okay, though. I’m okay with it.”

“I’m glad you’re doing okay,” Eric says, traipsing up another flight of stairs.

The attic is light and airy, for an attic, with a large, floor to ceiling window at one end, letting the sun in. It’s filled with boxes, marked _Bitty, Dex,_ or _Nursey._ There are no sheets on the top bunk, so Jack tosses his sleeping bag up there and leaves his duffel by the food of the bed after grabbing his camera from it.

“Awesome, thanks.”

He glances to the bed. Hidden amongst Eric’s sheets, Senior Bun’s ears are poking out. It makes Jack smile.

“Oh, don’t you start,” Eric says, rolling his eyes. “Now c’mon, we better go before Shitty burns the food.”

They make it down in time to turn the sausages before they burn too badly. Lardo’s lying on a blanket, top pushed up to expose most of her stomach/ribs to the sun and a pair of shades over her eyes. Shitty’s shed his shirt and is lying down next to her, the two of them staring at the clouds.

Eric tends to the grill while Jack spreads himself out on the couch, leaving the clean lawn chair to Eric. He’s heard Eric complain about this couch enough.

The music keeps wafting out of the windows, upbeat and pop-y. Eric hums along with the tune. It’s easy, the four of them, spread out around the yard, munching away on only slightly charred food, sunning away in the warmth.

“Jack,” Eric says, frowning at him. “I think your nose is getting a bit red,” Eric points out.

“Oh, shit,” Jack says, putting a hand up to his nose, feeling the warm skin. It’ll be the tips of his ears next.

“There’s sunscreen in the Haus, do you want some?”

“Oh, yeah, please,” Jack says, getting up to his feet. He’s halfway to the door when he pauses. “Uh, where?”

Eric huffs out a sigh before dropping his bottle of water on Shitty’s stomach. Shitty startles awake from his doze, looking between Eric and the water for a second before he smiles and takes a drink.

“Thank’s man.”

“You should get some sunscreen on, too,” Eric says, frowning at him. “Your chest’s going red.”

“Bring it out, please?”

“Urgh, fine, you lazy shit.”

Jack stifles a laugh, following Eric into the Haus, towards the small bathroom downstairs. Eric pulls open the cabinet above the sink, yanking out the tube of SPF 50 sunscreen, holding it out to Jack.

He squeezes some on his finger tips, dabbing it across his cheekbones and nose before rubbing the paste into his skin. He looks to Eric. “Did I get it all?”

Eric bites his lip, frowning, “Uh, no there’s still some-” he gestures to his cheek. Jack rubs at his own.

“Now?”

“Uh,” Eric’s frown deepens. “Do you mind?” he asks, reaching out his hand.

Jack leans in obligingly, ducking his head so that he’s closer to Eric’s level.

Eric swipes his hand over Jack’s cheek, rubbing at it. Jack can’t look anywhere but his face, not when they’re this close.

His eyes are so huge, so dark. Jack swallows.

Eric’s hand stills so that he’s just cupping Jack’s face, the two of them mere inches from each other. Jack can feel the warmth of Eric’s breath.

Eric pulls sharply. “There, all done. I better go give this to Shitty before he turns to a lobster out there.”

“Uh, yeah,” Jack laughs, quickly straightening up. They head out, Eric tossing the bottle of sunscreen so that it lands next to Shitty on the blanket, before spreading himself out on his chair again.

“Oh, thanks, Bits,” Shitty says, sitting up to spread cream on himself. Lardo gets up to do his back for him.

Jack grabs his camera from where he’d set it when they came down from the attic and snaps a few candid shots of his friends before they notice what he’s doing. Eric spots him first, rolling his eyes.

“Lord, I thought I’d gotten a rest from that thing.”

“No chance,” Jack says, grinning, snapping another photo as Eric rolls his eyes, lit up by the bright sun.

Shitty’s half crawled onto Lardo’s lap, head resting on her legs as she cards her fingers through his hair.

He captures that as well.

Jack doses off after that for a bit, waking up as it starts to dull around them when Shitty get’s up, shoving his way onto the sofa next to him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Jack gives him a smile, before casting a glance around. Eric and Lardo have disappeared.

“Away to get stuff for s’mores,” Shitty answers his unspoken question. Jack glances back towards the Haus, smiling at the rickety thing.

“I think,” Jack starts, still not taking his eyes off the building. “I’m gonna pay for it to get fixed.”

“Huh?” Shitty frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“The Haus. I know it’s a bit of a health hazard, and Eric seems pretty worried that it’ll get shut down come September,” Jack twists back to face Shitty. “I’m gonna pay for it. For the new generations.”

“I mean sure, but… why?” Shitty asks with a frown. “You don’t even remember it.”

“Not properly,” Jack says. “But, if I’ve learned anything, I wouldn’t be where I am without this place, without that team. I owe it to the place.”

“That’s… surprisingly touching, bro,” Shitty says, glancing back up at the Haus. “I’ve gotta say, I’ll be glad to see this girl get a new lease of life. I’d have put money on her being knocked down by Christmas.”

Jack smiles. “Yeah, it will be. Nice to see I mean, not the knocked down thing. Although, I mean, we’ll wait and see what the contractors say, it might be better to start a new-”

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Shush.”

“Okay.”

There’s a moment of silence, the two of them gazing up at the Haus, when the door opens, and Lardo comes out, walking slowly with Eric and holding a jacket in front of him.

“Jack! Close your eyes.”

“Huh?” Jack says, before Shitty’s hands close over his eyes.

“Got him,”

“What are you guys up to…?”

There’s some shuffling and giggling, Shitty’s hands still firmly clamped over his eyes, then Shitty says, close to his ear, “Right, are we ready? One, two, _three.”_

The hands are lifted from his eyes to reveal Eric stood in front of him, clutching a cake, with the words ‘ _Happy birthday Jack_ ’ painted across it.

Lardo, Shitty and Eric start to sing.

“ _Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, dear Jaaaaaack, Happy birthday to you.”_

Jack blinks at the cake incredulously. “You guys didn’t have to do this.”

“You didn’t think we were just going to ignore your birthday, now did you?” Lardo asks, shaking her head. “Go on then, blow out the candle.”

Jack pauses, looking at the flickering wick in the centre of the cake, on top of a giant candle number twenty-seven. He pauses, looking at Eric, feeling his heart thump in his chest. His stomach clenches, not entirely unpleasantly, and then Jack blows out his candles.

“Did you make a wish?” Shitty asks, grinning.

Jack looks back at Bitty, smiling from ear to ear. “Yeah. Yeah I did.”

 

-

 

Lardo and Shitty end up smoking a blunt between them, the smell of pot filling the yard. It gets dark out around them, while they make s’mores.

“I have to say,” Shitty says, after polishing off his fourth s’more. “The lack of s’mores in my adult life is a _tragedy_.”

“They are the greatest,” Lardo agrees, twisting her marshmallow stick so it cooks evenly.

Jack stifles a yawn. “Man, what time is it?”

Lardo check’s her watch. “It’s… twelve thirty. We should probably head into the Haus soon.”

“I might head to bed now,” Jack says. “I’m exhausted.”

“Me too,” Eric says, yawning in earnest. He heads over to the grill, shutting the vents and putting on the lid. “Let’s hope it doesn’t rain tonight because I cannot be bothered dragging that sofa up the porch steps.”

Jack shrugs, as the four of them meander inside, Shitty dragging the cooler along behind them. “I mean, look on the bright side. If the rain ruins the couch then you’d finally have a reason to throw that thing out.”

Shitty laughs.

“Yeah,” Eric says, with a sad sigh, “Worryingly, I think that Chowder would insist we keep it anyway, even if it was waterlogged and moldy.”

“We could have a farewell bonfire,” Shitty offers, as they step into the Haus, pulling the door closed behind them. “Burn the thing.”

“I thought you loved that couch,” Lardo asks, raising an eyebrow at Shitty.

“Yeah, but I don’t live here anymore,” he says. “Doesn’t matter to me what couch the Haus has.”

She rolls her eyes, “So fickle.”

They turn off the lights as they head upstairs, saying goodnight to Lardo and Shitty on the second-floor landing before he and Eric continue up to the attic.

They switch on the light, Eric collapsing back onto the bottom bunk. “Oh  _man_ that was a long day.”

“It was fun, though,” Jack says, pausing as he rolls out his sleeping bag on the top bunk. “Uh, Eric?”

“Yeah, Jack?”

“I, uh, didn’t bring any pajama bottoms. I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable-”

“Jack, hun, I’ve seen you in your boxers an _uncountable_ number of times,” Eric says, throwing a hand over his forehead, staring at the top bunk. “Even before... _everything_ , we were on a hockey team together. It’s fine.”

“Sorry,” Jack says, before yanking his shirt over his head. He quickly shimmies out of his jeans, leaving them folded on top of a box before he climbs up onto the top bunk as gracefully as he can. Eric waits till he’s stopped shuffling about and is in his bunk before he gets out of bed, shrugging out of the tank top.

Jack forces himself not to look.

Jack catches a glimpse of him out the corner of his eye as Eric pads over to the light switch, in just his briefs and a pair of gray socks.

He rolls onto his side, as Eric crawls under the covers of his bed, rocking the bunk bed.

He eventually settles. Jack lies there, listening to his breathing even out.

“Eric?”

“Hm?”

“You asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“...Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“What is it?”

Jack sighs, rolling onto his back. He doesn’t know how to start, how to broach the feelings he’s got in his chest, the way his heart hammers so hard whenever he’s around Eric, the way he can’t stop looking at him.

It’s late. It’s so late. He shouldn’t be awake right now.

“Jack?” Eric tries again.

“Can I come join you?” Jack asks finally, forcing out some words, _any_ words.

There’s a pause. Silence.

“Yeah,” Eric breaths, his voice slowing to a deep drawl with how tired he is.

Jack swings his legs out of the bed, still bundled up in the sleeping bag, and hops to the floor, sliding into Eric’s bed, who pulls himself and his duvet closer to the wall.

They lie there, like that, both wrapped up in their own bedding, but so close, heads bent so their foreheads almost pressed together. Almost touching but not quite.

Jack unzips some of his sleeping bag, freeing his arm. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” Eric says after a beat. It’s a whispered admission, almost too quiet for Jack to hear. Jack moves his hand to Eric’s chin, pushing his face up to meet Jack’s gaze. The orange glow of the street lights streaking in the window, lighting up one side of Eric’s face.

“Your one of the best people, I’ve ever met,” Jack manages, not taking his eyes off of Eric’s. He feels brave all of a sudden. Eric makes him feel brave.

“I’m in love with you, Eric.”

The declaration hangs there, out in the air between them. He can’t take it back, doesn’t _want_ to. He wants this, he wants _Eric._

Eric presses forward, grabbing onto his jaw, and suddenly they're _kissing._ They're kissing and Eric's wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, naked skin on naked skin, pulling him closer. It's like his nerves are on fire, the warmth of Eric pressed up against him, their lips together, finally.

They don’t do more than kiss, Jack trailing one hand lazily down the knobs of Eric’s spine, Eric clutching at Jack’s waist, until eventually they fall apart, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

“I love you too,” Eric rolls his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jack grins back at him.

Jack can’t get enough of looking at Eric’s face, at his smile. It’s intoxicating.

“Jack,” Eric says, yawning sleepily, and pulling up the covers over his shoulders. Jack tosses an arm over his waist, pulling himself in closer, still in his sleeping bag.

“Yeah, Bits?”

“I’m in this, us, with you,” he says sleepily. Jack beams.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eric leans forward and presses a small, chaste kiss against his mouth. “Me too. Now, can you please go to sleep.”

Jack snorts, wrapping an arm tighter around Eric’s waist, letting him shuffle around so that they’re spooning. He presses a kiss against the back of Eric’s neck, before settling down in the sheets.

 

-

 

Neither himself nor Eric had the foresight to close the curtains the night before, too groggy with sleep, the thing between them too fragile to risk by getting out of bed. This means Jack’s woken up early when the sun starts to leak in through the window, tinting the room orange.

He winces against the brightening sky. Eric’s curled up around him, one leg pushed between his own, an arm tossed over his waist. His breath is hot on Jack’s chest, and the sheets were pushed off in the night and are tangled up with Jack’s sleeping bag at their feet.

Jack slowly pulls himself from Eric’s embrace, getting quietly to his feet and heading over to tug the curtains closed.

When he gets back to the bed, Eric is awake, looking up at him with foggy eyes.

“What time’s it?”

“Early,” Jack says, his voice hushed as he gingerly climbs into bed, pulling the sheet back up over the two of them. They’re sharing the one pillow and one small twin mattress so there’s no space between them. Eric’s like a furnace, his skin hot to the touch. Jack’s not quite sure where to fit himself, the morning light shattering the comfort of the night before. It’s indecent, he’s practically naked, sneaking into Eric’s bed in the middle of the night–

“Jack,” Eric puts a hand on his jaw and his smile is blinding. “Hush, baby.”

Jack nuzzles into Eric’s hand on instinct, eyes fluttering shut, his breathing evening out. They lie like that for a while, curled up next to each other until Jack dozes off again.

He’s not sure how long he’s out for, not really sure if he sleeps properly at all. It feels more like a really long blink, then he’s awake, alarm buzzing on one side of the bed. Eric’s brows furrow as he tugs the sheets around his ears.

“Urgh,” Eric groans as Jack twists, swatting at his phone until it’s quiet.

“I gotta get up,” Jack says, turning back and looping an arm over Eric’s waist, pulling him closer. Eric’s like fire, his skin warm to the touch.

“No,” Eric mumbles, curling into Jack even tighter, tucking his face into Jack’s neck.

“Yes,” Jack sighs. “I’ve got a lunch thing back in Providence.”

Eric sighs, pulling his face away a bit. The sun that earlier was so hazy and amber was now a bright yellow streak down the bed, leaking out from the gap in the curtains. They don’t say anything, nothing needs to be said, not really. Instead, they just lie there.

Jack can’t get enough of looking at him, can’t tear his eyes away from the curve of his cheek, the upturn of his nose, his _eyes_ , so huge, so dark.

He’s beautiful. He’s so, so beautiful. Jack can’t believe that he gets to have this, again.

“Love you,” Eric murmurs against his skin, pressing his lips to Jack’s collarbone. “Love you. All of you. Every you.”

“You too,” Jack says.

“I gotta get my arm free,” Eric says after a minute. Jack blinks, then Eric wiggles his arm under Jack’s rib cage and Jack hoists himself up. Eric pulls himself free. “Jesus, my arm’s dead.”

Jack kisses his shoulder as Eric rolls onto his back, before he throws an arm over his waist and lays his head on Eric’s ribs, which lasts for all of two minutes before Eric moves him into the nook of his armpit. “Lord your head’s heavy. Must be the weight of those cheekbones.”

Jack pokes him in the side, nuzzling in.

“Gross, my pits must be awful, it was so hot yesterday.”

“Smells like you,” Jack mumbles.

“Extra gross.”

Eric’s fingers are gently tracing the knobs in Jack’s spine, ghosting over the lines of his ribs. “You really do have to get up.”

Jack lifts his head, scooting up the bed so that Eric’s arm weaves it’s way under his neck, Eric’s hand coming to rest on the nape of his neck.

Eric presses forwards, their lips meeting. His lips are so soft pressed against Jack, so warm. Jack feels Eric’s teeth close around his bottom lip, tugging it into his mouth before running his tongue along it.

This is not like the chaste kisses they shared before, the ones Jack can remember. It sets his lips alight, as Eric tugs him closer, threading his leg between Jack’s.

“Eric,” Jack says half groan, fingertips scrabbling against Eric’s skin. “Bits, I’ve gotta go home.”

It feels like he is home, here with Eric, wherever Eric is that’s where he needs to be. Eric pulls away, his eyes going wide, “I didn’t mean to push, I kn-“

Jack pushes forward, kissing Eric firmly, rolling the two of them over so that Eric’s pinned underneath him, gripping onto Jack’s waist, legs moving to allow Jack to settle in the space between his thighs. He pulls away from the kiss, looking down on Eric and the dazed look across his face.

“Lord, _Jack_ ,” The way Eric says his name makes Jack’s stomach twist. Like it’s precious. Like he’s precious. “What are we doing?”

Jack doesn’t have an answer for that, not one that doesn’t strongly feature the heat in his stomach, the blood pounding in his ears, and _BittyBittyBitty_ on a loop in his head. He doesn’t have the words, not for what he’s feeling not for Eric.

Eric pulls his head down when he sees Jack floundering, pressing their lips together again. Jack’s hips jerk down, on instinct, grinding in the hard crease of Eric’s hip. Eric moans into his mouth.

“I’ve missed you,” Jack murmurs, kissing along his jaw. “I’ve missed you, I love you, I love you,” his words are a mantra, a prayer.

He bites the skin of Eric’s neck, before running his tongue along the rise of his collar bone, down the hard, muscular panels of his chest. Eric squirms underneath him.

Jack really should hurry up but it’s hard to convince himself to move faster, when Eric’ making all these jerks and twists, hips thrusting up to meet Jack’s.

But he doesn’t. He takes his time, fingers trailing from Eric’s thigh, up past his stomach, his rips, and straight to his nipple, tweeting it between his fingers. The groan that Eric makes is almost reverent.

Eric throws an arm over his eyes, hips jerking up again, against his will. Jack can feel him, pressed hard against his stomach. “Jack, you _tease_.”

It’s so fond, so familiar, that it makes him remember that this is not the first time for Eric that they’ve been together, not by a long shot. This is not the first time that Jack has gotten to have this man, taken him apart bit by bit, slowly but surely. It’s not an unpleasant realisation; he’s not competing with himself, not anymore.

“Ja _-aack_ ,” Eric’s voice goes up an octave as Jack’s mouth trails down to Eric’s abs, one hand bracing himself next to Eric’s hip and the other splayed on his upper thigh, gripping tightly.

He looks _debauched_ , red beard burn peppering his chest, blush rising high on his cheeks, the tip of his cock peeking out of his boxer shorts. Jack hooks his fingers into Eric’s waistband, looking up at him and pausing.

“Can I?”

Eric nods furiously, before tipping his head back, hips arching off the bed. Jack takes the opportunity to tug his boxers down. It’s a bit awkward and Eric ends up having to sit up to help him. Pulling someone’s underwear down from in between their legs, especially on a bottom bunk, does not turn out to be the simplest task, but then after a giggle and an unfortunate elbow in Jack’s ribs, Eric’s lying there, propped up against the headboard wearing only his socks. He drops Jack’s gaze, shoulders hunching slightly.

“Uh, I-“

Jack leans forward, pressing their lips together again, stifling the moan Eric lets out as he just melts back against the bed, tension gone, hips lifting up up _up_ , pushing his cock against Jack’s stomach, skin on skin.

“Oh _christ_ ,” Eric curses as Jack pulls away, kissing a line straight down his chest and settling himself back between Eric’s legs.

Jack’s sucked a dick before. He can remember how to suck dick, remember what he’s supposed to do but _this_ , with Eric, it’s new.

Eric’s cock is leaking slightly, curved up against his stomach, on the golden patch of hair glinting in the sunlight.

“Jack,” Eric says, a note of frustration in his tone. He’s got one hand clenched in the sheets. “I don’t mean to rush you, or push you, but–“

Jack licks a wet stripe up the back of Eric’s cock and he collapses against the sheets, going boneless at the stimulation. He licks around the head, before sucking it into his mouth.

There’s the tang of salt from the precum gathered, then mostly skin and the overwhelming smell of Eric. Eric lets out a garbled moan, hips twitching. Jack runs one hand along Eric’s abs, pressing down with his forearm to keep him on the mattress, keep him from moving. He’s got his other hand braced by Eric’s hip, as he swallows his cock down, licking around the shaft. He keeps his cheeks hollow, sucking lightly as he lifts his head, bobbing down, tongue running up the underside of Eric’s cock, swirling around the head.

Eric groans, loudly. Jack feels Eric’s hand on the back of his head, before he hesitates and lets go, dropping his hand to his side.

Jack pulls off, looking up at him from under his eyelashes. He must look ridiculous.

“You can hold my head, I don’t mind.”

Eric just lets out a curse and then a deep sigh as Jack licks back up his cock, taking him into his mouth again. He doesn’t go quite as deep this time, keeping up a firm suction and using his hand to jack him off. Eric’s fingers twist in his hair, his thighs stiffening on either side of his shoulders. Jack can feel the sweat forming on his skin, as he lets out a high, keening moan.

“Jack,” Eric gasps out, quickly, far too quickly for what Jack really wants. “Jack please, I’m gonna–“

His fingers are tugging on Jack’s hair, warning him, but Jack just swallows him down as far as he can, and feels the cum hit the back of his throat, the tang of salt and bitterness overwhelming. He waits till he feels Eric’s hips stop twitching, cock stop pulsing on his tongue, before he pulls off, Eric’s cock softening slightly in his mouth.

He lies his head on Eric’s thigh, the light hairs tickling his cheek, as he looks up at him, desperately trying to catch his breath. Jack can feel his heart pounding, his pulse beating through his skin, rattling through Jack’s body.

“Jesus, I… I…” Eric’s limbs go lax.

Jack fidgets, shuffling up the bed, careful of Eric’s over sensitive cock, before he starts mouthing along Eric’s jaw.

“Just gimme a minute,” Eric says, still slightly breathless.

Jack squirms, blood rushing to his cock, warmth pulsing through his skin. He shuffles slightly, leaning off the bed, across Eric’s waist to glance underneath it.

“What are you doing?” Eric frowns, shifting slightly underneath him, trapped by Jack’s mass. Jack’s still got his head and most of one arm off the side of the bed, searching under the mattress.

He pulls out a bottle of lube with a triumphant grin. Eric looks confused. “I just figured, who hasn’t lost a bottle of lube under the bed at some point?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Eric says, grinning up at him fondly, stroking his hand down Jack’s face. Jack grinds down into his hip bone, desperately seeking friction.

“Can I just-“ Jack chokes out as Eric lifts up his hips, kissing Jack’s neck.

“Whatever you want, babe,” Eric says, before tugging his earlobe between his teeth.

Jack shoves his boxers down, until they hit past his knees, then he squirts lube into his hand, before wrapping it firmly around his cock, resting the urge to jerk off harder. “Uh,” he sits back on his knees, still sitting between Eric’s thighs which are splayed obscenely around him. “Can you roll over?”

Realisation dawns on Eric’s face, and he lifts up his legs, manoeuvring himself so he’s on his knees, arms braced under his shoulders, looking back at Jack with a cocky grin, “This what you’re thinking?”

Jack’s mouth goes dry, his cock twitching at the sight, the expanse of skin, just _Bitty_ , there, for him.

He swallows, nodding, before plastering himself along Eric’s back, one hand on his cock, the other running up and down Eric’s side.

Jack lets go of himself, running his hand up the side of Eric’s thigh, before switching to the other, and pushing his cock between Eric’s legs. Eric pushes his knees together, keeping his thighs tight, tense as Jack rocks in and out, grabbing onto his hips.

He feels like he’s falling apart, falling down to just the pleasure, coursing through his system, the heat in his belly, everything focusing on Eric, where they touch, where their bodies meet _._

It’s over quickly, his muscles clenching, heart rate skyrocketing as the sweat pools and drips off of his skin. His hands tighten on Eric’s hips too tightly and he jerks forward before spilling out, all over the bedsheets before collapsing onto Eric’s back.

Eric reaches an arm back, patting his hip gently. “C’mon, roll off me now, I’m getting all sticky.”

Jack reluctantly rolls onto his side, and Eric twists under him, laying down on his back, tossing one of his legs over Jacks.

“We’ve gotta get a bigger bed,” Jack says, still out of it from the orgasm.

“We have a bigger bed, just not here.”

“We need a bigger bed here,” Jack corrects himself. Eric laughs, rolling his eyes.

“C’mon, you’ve gotta get up,” Eric pushes at his shoulder, in a feeble attempt to get him to move. It doesn’t work. Jack closes his eyes.

They both startle as his phone starts to blare another obnoxious alarm sound.

“That’s my alarm for when I have to be out the house,” Jack murmurs, stifling a yawn. Eric elbows him in the ribs.

“Go!”

“I will,” Jack says, throwing an arm around Eric’s waist. He doesn’t want to leave, to burst this bubble that they’ve made.

“Jack,” Eric says, sitting up. He’s still naked, save for the socks, cum and lube glued to his stomach and his hair a riot. Jack can only imagine what he looks like.

He doesn’t want to leave the bed. He doesn’t want to go back to the real world.

“Jack, you gotta go,” Eric says softly, pressing another kiss to his lips. Jack’s hand drifts from his hairline to his jaw, his throat.

“Yeah, no,” he shakes his head, pulling away slightly. “I gotta go.”

They kiss once more, Jack half on top of him as he tries to pull himself out of the bed. He yanks on his old clothes; he’ll shower at home, no point in showering here and then going smelling like smoke to his lunch.

Eric’s pulled the sheet up around his waist, eyes fixed on him as he hops around trying to tug on one of his sneakers.

He drops one foot onto the ground, standing in his jeans with no shirt and only one shoe before he steps forward, lunges really, cupping Eric’s face into his hand, pressing their lips together again. Eric’s hands grip his waist.

They break apart too soon.

“You gotta go,” Eric says, his eyes sad.

“Yeah,” Jack swallows.

“I’ll text you,” Eric says - no, he _promises_.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He’s got his other shoe in his hand, and his shirt is thrown over the bed. He’s got to _go_ , he’s got to leave.

“I promise,” Eric says, giving him a watery smile. “Love you.”

Jack can’t help himself, leaning forward to kiss Eric again, hand going around his waist to help lift him up, pulling them together. He could do this all day, just keep touching Eric.

Eric pushes at him, laughing into his mouth. “Get your shirt on, you ding dong. You’re going to be late!”

He grins, letting himself be pushed backwards, before he pulls his shirt over his head. “Yeah, Bits, I’ll be late, but it's worth it.”

 

-

 

The drive to Providence is a blur, his mind on loop, playing back the stolen sleepy moments in the Haus. He wants to turn around, to go back to Eric, to their bubble, but he keeps driving back to Providence. He promised Georgia that he’d meet with Seth.

He has to meet with Seth. He has to know what happened.

The first thing he does when he gets home is shower, tossing all his clothes straight into the washing machine. He’s as quick and perfunctory as he can be, washing away the evidence of the previous night.

He steps out the shower, pulling a towel off the hook and rubbing it through his hair, before stepping up to the mirror, peering at himself through the slight fog. Jack’s not exactly sure when his reflection stopped looking so alien to him, when he got used to the short hair, the little wrinkles on his forehead, the new breadth to his shoulders.

He doesn’t look at himself with the same revulsion as when he first came back from the hospital, like looking at a stranger in his own skin. It’s still _him_. He’s still _him,_ still got the stretch marks on his hips from the growth spurt, still got the scar along his side from a skateboarding accident when he was 12. Still has his same eyes, his face, he’s just older now.

He towels himself off quickly, pulls on his clothes that probably match and a cap, before heading out the door.

Seth Offill arranged to meet him in Providence, ironically to save Jack from traveling, at to some small bistro that had great rating on Yelp, apparently. It was too central, too popular, for Jack’s taste, but he’d given over control of the meeting place to Seth, make sure the kid didn’t get lost.

He spots Seth straight away, recognizing him from the photos on the articles he’d read in preparation. He’s hanging out at the corner of the coffee shop, scrunched up in his seat with a magazine open on his table. Jack gives him a wave, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach, and joins the line to order something to drink.

He orders a cappuccino and a muffin, pointing towards where Seth is sitting when the waitress asks for a table number.

“That’ll be seven thirty, please.”

Jack pulls out a ten from his wallet, drops the change in the tip jar, before heading over to the table. Seth stands up to greet him, holding out a hand. Jack shakes it.

“Hey,” Jack says, sitting down across from him. He’s struck by how young he looks, how baby-faced the kid is. “Sorry I’m late, got held up.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Seth says, glancing around before sitting back down in his seat, a little stiltedly. “Uh, did you find it here okay?”

“I know the town pretty well,” Jack says with a light laugh, watching Seth turn red. “Well, Georgia says that you wanted to speak to me?”

Seth swallows, Jack can see the nerves on his face. “I just… since you gave that interview, I felt like I ought to.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Jack offers, “I mean dropped my gloves, Seth, that’s on me.”

“Yeah, but I goaded you,” Seth says, dropping his gaze, knotting his hands on his lap. “I-”

They’re interrupted by the arrival of Jack’s coffee and muffin. Jack thanks the woman, taking a grateful sip of the creamy cappuccino.

It’s quiet between them, Jack’s in no mood to start this conversation; it’s not his responsibility to ease this kids conscience; he doesn’t owe him that. Seth wanted to meet him.

Seth clears his throat. “I just, I wanted you to know, how it happened. It was me. I’d heard stories from some of the older guys on the team, whisperings, y’know? And I didn’t think much of it, but then there he was, sitting at the glass, waving that giant fucking banner.”

Seth’s talking about Eric, Jack realizes.

“I just-” Seth pauses, taking a deep breath, staring at the ceiling. “I wanted to goad you into a fight, so I picked on you and when you didn’t bite, I picked on him.”

His tone is wobbly but his speed is even, like he’s rehearsed this.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” Seth says. “I’ve been talking to my therapist a lot, and uh, I guess I was projecting? Deflecting? I thought if I made fun of you, people wouldn’t- well, that doesn’t matter. Sorry, uh I’m making this about me.”

Seth takes a deep steadying breath and Jack watches as he forces his head up, meeting Jack’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I goaded you, and that all this happened. It was stupid. I never could’ve imagined the consequences it had for you.”

Jack realizes as he watches Seth that he’s not mad, not anymore. The anger at the situation, at everything he lost isn’t there anymore, not dragging him down, holding him back. Instead there’s this calm emptiness about the situation.

It was an accident.

He’s okay. He’s still here.

“No, no, you couldn’t have known. Neither could I, I mean, it was an accident,” Jack pauses. “Thank you for saying that.”

Seth looks away. “Are you ok? I know you said that you still had memory loss during your announcement…”

He trails off, Jack can see the hope in his eyes, that he’s recovered, that he’s ok, that this kid doesn’t need to feel guilty any more. “I’m ok. It hasn’t come back but I’m coping, learning to deal better, uh, I was angry for a long time, but… but I think I’m over that.”

Seth hesitates in his reply, still not meeting Jack’s gaze. “And the… the guy on the stands?” The words come out, rushed and like a whisper.

“We’re…” Jack hesitates. “We’re good.”

Seth sits back, looking him up and down. “You’re pretty chill about all this. Chiller than I would be.”

Jack shrugs, “I’ve had a lot of time to adapt.”

He feels _old_ all of a sudden, can feel every last one of his twenty seven years in comparison with the child sitting in front of him.

Seth frowns at him, before shaking his head, “Thank’s for meeting me, I think I needed this.”

Jack did as well, although, maybe not as much as Seth. He knows now what happened, can see exactly why he dropped his gloves that day. He gets it.

“You’re welcome,” Jack says.

He doesn’t know what the future holds for Seth, doesn’t know how his career in the NHL will go with this hanging over his head, but Jack finds he genuinely hopes that it gets better for the kid. He’s not holding any more grudges.

They sit in relative silence, drinking their coffee until Seth makes his excuses, leaving to catch a train.

Jack finishes his coffee while skimming the news headlines on his cell, then he gets to his feet and heading out of the cafe and into the sunshine. His phone’s barely touched his pocket before he feels it buzz against his thigh. He pulls it back out, swiping over the screen. It’s Bitty.

 **Today** 14.47

Hey :)

Hey <3

 

The sun’s hot on his skin but there’s a breeze keeping him cool. He doesn’t stop smiling.

He’s not _better_ , not in the way the doctors first hoped. He’ll never be the same as he was before, but he doesn’t care. He’s different now, he’s grown, adapted, _coped_. After everything that’s happened Jack’s okay.

He’s happy.

 

-

**End**

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my [tumblr](http://rransom.tumblr.com/) again, just in case you missed it. 
> 
> If you scroll down you'll find a link to "I will remember you" in the the Inspired Works section, which is _amazing_ , obviously. I can't believe that this fic has inspired work. that's amazing. you should all go check it out. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this, I certainly have enjoyed all the feedback I've received during posting, your comments have been fantastic, and I'd like to say extra thanks to everyone who followed this through as a WIP, u guys have the patience of saints, and it has been super motivating.
> 
> I wanna say a massive thanks again to [Sam](http://samsamtastic.tumblr.com/) for everything she's done for me during this fic, she's really been fantastic, and this fic would not be 1/2 as good without her. 
> 
> Thank's for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I Will Remember You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7885378) by [maiNuoire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maiNuoire/pseuds/maiNuoire)




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